


What the Yarrow Knows

by gimmeshellder



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F, If you're looking for a well-researched AU... you should keep looking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, lots of h/c content tbh, minor depictions of violence, pearl gets beat up a lot, rating to increase later, some Mulan-tier genderespionage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22108990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Medieval(ish) AU. Lady Quartz extends an offer to an unlucky lawbreaker.
Relationships: Pearl/Rose Quartz (Steven Universe)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS AS EVER to [ TheBlindBandit ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindBandit/) for endless jamming, beta-ing, diligent Pearl vanguarditude, pulling apart plot hang-ups and general badassery!!! raised goddamn hands emoji!!!
> 
> I currently expect this to land at... around 6 or 7 parts, and pray to sweet socialist Jesus that it doesn't extend beyond that.
> 
> medieval scholars don't @ me (but also yeah please do)

The soldier swims, for a time. It’s not difficult. Not when sleep is of exhaustion. Of injury. Most often dreamless but even when not, still simple to pull away from the colors and coarse voices and simply drift. This is now: astray in a great black lake. A kind of thickness of the brain one accepts until breaking the surface, grated all over and nerves riddled red. 

Though this is warmer than the soldier’s accustomed to. Nearly comfortable. As though sunk in some soft cloud in the haze. Peaceful. Not in the barracks cot, then, nursing an overlong bout of training… not shifting stiffly into wakefulness on the cold ground to the splintered calls of officers. She swims, caked with dull ache, bleary, working for the surface. For sight, too. Slow to come. 

_Ah,_ comes a thought, in the way of sleepers, _perhaps this is death_. The idea is… not too troubling, she finds. Perhaps death is not so terrible a thing. An eternity like this, even in the dark? Soothing. And warm. When’s the last she was this warm? 

She sinks into it. Lets herself. Let the surface come, when it wishes. If it wishes. She will not swim. 

But… scent returns. Lavender. She smells lavender. Sweet and flimsy as a wedding veil. Floral smells. _Garden_ smells. Things that have been only memory for… years, now. No such delicacy in the mud. In bodies, in the field. No such sweetness. 

Her mouth waters, if it’s still hers. (A swallow; her throat cramps.)

Breath: she needs breath -- and in pulling one in, too deep and too quickly, she startles at the hot rivets of pain that appear in clusters along her body as though hammer-driven by a drunken smith and she grunts, gasps aloud, eyes wrenching open at last.

“Be still,” summer morning of a voice. Unseen. More gentle than the dark. “You’ll tear your sutures.”

The soldier heeds; she goes still, dizzied. Lightness blinds her but she blinks to clear it. The scorching rivets begin to cool as she calms. For a moment, she simply settles back into her skin… and ah, yes, there they are: the wrenching bite, scrape and peel of fresh injuries. Old companions. 

The same cannot be said for her resting place.

A rich, downy quilt covers her to the chin, tucked atop the largest bed she has seen in her life. Dark woods and decadent tones of garments litter about -- scattered, but not quite cluttering. A generous window to the side of the bed lets in the early dawn, and the milky light shows the room to be _enormous._ She cannot turn her head to see the far wall. A small table in reach, if she had the wherewithal to do so, covered in wraps of gauze, and a stool to match. Directly opposite the bed, there’s yet a larger table of herbs, glittering devices, squirrelly bundles of maps, bottles and jars of various sizes -- all festooned with lion crests. A pennant, a dagger, a cloak on the wall, a… a rose brooch. 

_Oh._

The rivets of pain spark as she sucks in another breath.

“M-my Lady.” What else can she say? The soldier drops her eyes again to the quilt. What does she do? What does she _do?_ How can she kneel -- like this? The soldier begins to struggle upward, underneath the heavy quilt, aches ignored --

“Do be _still,_ ” the Lady Quartz echoes, more tersely. She approaches right of the bed, and her hand comes to rest ghostly on the soldier’s knee. The touch ought to burn, even through the thick fabric. “All is well.”

It’s decidedly not. But the soldier only swallows, watching her Lady’s hand on the quilt. Ringless, pink with work. Her heart pounds. Her head pounds. “Where am I?”

“You’re in one of my western chambers. Closest to Silverhill.” The Lady steps closer and to her horror, reaches for the soldier’s face. But the Lady does not touch: she simply gestures, voice softer. Beckoning. “Let me have a look at you.”

So compelled, the soldier does. She brings her eyes upward. “My Lady.” Her voice wants to shake. Must _not_ shake. She has seen the Lady Quartz once only, from a distance, far back in the regiment while marching past. Perhaps three years ago. It marked the first time the Lady herself had overseen healers on the field. For all the morale it had brought to the ranks, and for all the courage it must have taken, the Lady herself had looked about as remarkable as a chesspiece. Easy to mistake for any number of beautiful women, in any number of dresses.

There’s no mistaking her now. The Lady’s eyes are dark as the lake. “You have a wary look to you...” She sounds intrigued. “Surely you’re not more nervous _here.”_

The soldier’s eyes must drop. She cannot meet the Lady’s any longer. Her lips are dry; she wets them, or tries to, still bearing the weight of dark eyes. “Please. My Lady.” Stiff. She sounds so stiff. “Why am I here?”

She… she _smiles._ Even watching the floor, it can be _heard_ in the Lady’s voice: “Because you’re a woman.” It’s very near smug. “I could see that the moment I laid eyes on you.”

_Damn._

Oh, damn. There’s no tamping down a flinch. How long? That’s she’s concealed it? Years, now. Dancing around openings in the barracks.

And now here. Doubly an invalid. 

“Fraudulence… I know it means a range of consequences. None pleasant.” The Lady has retreated to the table. Bottles click like scarabs as she rummages. Something pours. She returns with a wetted cloth, folded neat, and moves to place it on the soldier’s brow. The coolness breaks something in her; she had not noticed her own fever. “How did you manage it?”

Back in darkness, for the moment. The blessed cool. There must be something else, some sly herb added to the water of the cloth to make it so soothing. She feels her mouth list open a moment, half-slack with relief. “I…” swallows, tongue sticking, “My brother…”

Fever, too. Though far worse. Far, far worse than this. Enough to pull the skin tight as a lyre over his ribs towards the end. And her, restless and sunken with vigil. Had gone a day without water herself, trying to get him to keep any down.

She trails into quiet. Shirking the question. A terrible insolence.

But the answer seems to appease. The Lady nods once, slow. “You took his name to enlist.” 

It was better than starving. 

A pause stretches for several moments. The soldier takes the chance to test… try to gauge the range of injury. Then the Lady asks, “And what is yours?”

“... m… mine?”

“Your name.”

Strange. Strange, to be asked that. And not answer _Gil._

She wets her lips and brushes the dust from the sound. It feels misshapen in her mouth. “... Pearl.”

“Pearl.” The Lady repeats it, gently. 

Stranger still to hear. 

The quiet sits. Minutes pass. Her eyes fall closed again under the cool cloth, the warm quilt. Despite the damage, she’s terribly comfortable. There is no anger in the room that she can detect... no scales quavering over her fate. Just the cool touch on her heated brow, pulling a damp lock of hair from one eye. 

The respite gives the chance to recall. Pieces at a time. Where she was last. Yes. The crossbow bolt in her thigh, through the leather, sizzling like the bite of an angry god -- another grazing her side, just tasting its mark around the plate as she felled a pikesman. Glint of dagger along her shoulder as she wrestled a cavalryman to the ground and sent his horse barreling, wide-eyed -- a shortsword skimming past her crossguard as she battled with another, clawing fruitful along her arm -- some icy slice at her ribs, where leather plate was meant to be -- 

With yanking dread, Pearl realizes she _must_ have been stripped to be tended to.

The dismay must be plain on her face but the Lady misreads, hand waving. “No fears, now. No one else knows. _Will_ know. It’s quite safe.” Pearl chances a glance, and finds dark eyes mischievous. “You’re my little secret.”

That… is a relief. Mostly. But she finds it daunting to summon up gratitude. 

_This is her bed,_ Pearl thinks, with horror sinking hot in her belly. _Her sheets, her pillows. Her scent._

“Please forgive me,” Pearl rasps. Throat dry. She swallows.

The Lady’s expression takes on something… rather unladylike. Nearly a _squint._ “For?”

“Please, my Lady, I,” Pearl’s eyes squeeze closed, and she struggles to open them again. “I cannot stay in your… your bed.” 

One eyebrow pulls high. “You won’t find a more comfortable one.” Then, more serious: “Kindly linger. Moving will open you up again, all over.”

It _is_ comfortable. This is the problem. Part of Pearl wants to be drunk with it.

”I-I shame myself, troubling you this way.” The same part of her wants to turn full into the feather pillow and breathe deep. _Not just another woman. The Lady Quartz._ Utterly dizzying. “I… my blood, all over your sheets, I cannot --”

“None of that, please.” Pearl winces as the soothing cloth is pulled away. She’s angered her. But no -- she’s only turned the cloth to its cooler side, and presses it again to Pearl’s brow. “You could philander a dozen brides a day for a hundred years, and _still_ die with honor to spare after Silverhill.” Awe creeps into her voice and it summons Pearl’s eyes again. The Lady… “I was there, you know. I _saw_ you.” 

… she sounds _reverent._

Pearl remembers. Against the opposing force. She remembers the freckled faces of men and acned faces of boys, all trying to kill her, remembers opening their throats and hearts and bellies. The color of their blood as it mixed underfoot into the dirt. No smell of lavender, there.

She supposes the approval should feel good, and… it... _does_ feel good. In a fashion. But Pearl resists it, even as her heart flutters against the scent. The comfort. Resists the slow, wine-heavy pull of the feather bed. She cannot. 

This… she can’t.

The Lady might pardon her being... _not_ being a man. But she can't pardon _all_ of Pearl. Oh, Lord. Torture. Pressed between the lush resting place and the warmth of dark eyes. 

Pearl winces against it all, chin bowing. “I shame _you_ , Lady, lying here --”

“Oh, shame take us both, then!” Her arms spread wide and clap down to her hips. But she sounds amused, even with the exasperation. “Shame has its luxuries. Your wellbeing not the least of them. I’ll take shame over fester anyday, wouldn’t you?”

“Please, my Lady,” Pearl near-whispers. She swallows again; it catches. “I cannot bear it.”

Her inner sanctum. Where she is most vulnerable. She sleeps here. _Her scent._ Lavender. Yarrow. Quiet corners of a garden. _Her scent. Her skin_. Pearl’s teeth clench. Oh, to be afflicted as she is. And here, and now -- in her Lady’s own bed.

Torture.

“You are _quite_ stubborn.” But it’s gentle. More wondering than stern. “Would you not take it as an order?”

“I beg you,” Pearl mumbles. Better to be back in the half-draft of the field healer’s tent. Or her own cot, in the barracks. In what she knows. 

A storm passes the Lady’s face. And there, in that moment, Pearl can feel her fears realized -- _this_ was what lay overhead all the while, dropping her gaze. Fear dangling like a gallows.

But the moment fades; the storm softens. Lady Quartz clicks her tongue and sighs. “Very well. I can refuse you nothing after your valor.” Her tones turn regal. So much so that Pearl must quash the urge to straighten to attention. “On the condition that you let me transport you _safely_.”

“Of course.” It comes as a croak. With polite zeal. Of course Pearl will. Only too eager to be back. To lick her wounds in peace.

“An elixir before, then.”

She sweeps away, around and past the foot of the bed. Pearl watches her back at the… yes, alright, it’s quite cluttered a table, moving with the certainty of years. Some handful of herbs pulled from a drawer -- something powdered, pinched with a careful touch. Bottles and spoons and pestle and mortar clicking, scraping, tinkling as she works. A kettle over the fire -- the Lady tugs up a sleeve to reach for it -- and she pours its contents over the produced mixture. Pearl watches as well as she can. It fills the room, whatever it is: some rich-smelling tea, malted, just slightly sweet. It steeps a minute or so before it’s poured off into a shallow bowl, fanned cool a few minutes more, and carried back to the bed.

Pearl’s mouth waters. Tries to, rather. But even parched as she is, her stomach roils. Uncertain she can keep it down. Oh, no. Imagine if she retched. Here in the silks. On the feather pillow, the fragile garden scent. Before she can voice her fear, the bowl is brought close to Pearl’s lips. 

“Drink. It will prevent you bleeding in the move.” Her tones have gentled again. “And help the pain, and the healing.”

But Pearl feels herself drawing away. She must -- she’s _parched,_ but she may make a mess --

The Lady… _scoffs._ Quietly, but she does. “You would refuse me even this?” It’s not quite deadpan. But there’s a wry smile in her voice. “Are all my best soldiers such terrible patients?”

“F… forgive --”

“Yes, yes, you beg I forgive you a thousand different things. I simply want you to _drink._ ”

Oh, it worsens still: she cups Pearl careful by the chin, the bowl in the other, tilting her head back with only fingertips. Gazing full in her face. Oh. Oh, dreadful. They leave decadent fire where they touch. The gentle fingers must feel Pearl swallow against her nerves and stupid, hot shame itches in her cheeks -- God! like a schoolboy -- and so abashed, she cannot help but try to pull away --

“Forgive me please.” Trapped fast between two impossibles: denying her Lady, or a humiliating ruin of her resting place. “I --”

She’s hushed with a finger to her lips. Tender, silken lightning snares every ounce of Pearl from the point of contact to her root. Breathless.

Caught fast. Oh. 

“You will ask me no more forgiveness.” Black eyes draw her in. Deeper than the lake. “I have nothing to forgive of you.”

Torture. Wonderful torture. Transfixed. Even her wounds take on a devastating lightness. And here, Pearl, immobilized by her own traitor flesh.

“I beg you.” The bowl presses again. “ _Kindly_ drink.”

Pearl yields. She drinks. 

It _is_ sweet. The tea. Just barely. Memory dapples, like sunlight through leaves, of some savored dainty from childhood. Warmth fills her with each pull, spreading from her tongue, to her parched throat, pooling in her chest. And further. Warm in her belly. Oh. Pearl’s eyes flicker. Comfort spills into the ache of her arms, down to her fingertips. Down her thighs, to her heels. Just a gentle, wandering glow. Pain softens, recedes, by precious degrees.

But something else. Something, too, spreading soft: thick, summery torpor pulls at her… at her eyes… weighing them down. Pulls at every part of Pearl. 

She begins to draw away, bleary, to ask what exactly --

“Careful.” The touch steers her cheek from spilling. The murmur is gentle, and soothes more than the tea. “Nearly there.”

Only when the last sip falls short (lips drowsy, lax) and leaves a dribble on her chin does Pearl see the swindle: fooled into sleep, and still in her Lady’s bed. 

But the beautiful, tender heaviness… it pulls her deeper into the feather mattress, thick with soft silks. A curious feeling, to sink and float both. 

Her eyes slide closed unbidden… a scattered mumble of protest at her lips. 

“Shhh…” Pearl’s last wakeful moment is the Lady, brushing the trickle of tea from her slack mouth. A soft brush against her chin: the quilt tucked again beneath it. “Rest.”

When she sleeps this time, she does not swim.  
  


* * *

Water. Soft sounds of water. Swirls against a basin.

Pearl’s eyes open before she asks them to. Low light. Candles. Lady Quartz, at her hip. She looks worn. Muddy boots and topcloak dropped in the corner by the glossy wardrobe. Water trickles as she wrings a cloth of its excess, before bringing it closer to some unseen wound. Warmth: a tart patch of pain at her side is tranquilized, and Pearl moans softly.

That brings dark eyes upward. Pearl is too exhausted for shame.

“Not too hot?” Quiet. 

Pearl’s chin nudges, left, right. That small act alone drains her.

“Try not to move.” Quiet. Perhaps it is night. “Your fever worsened, but it's broken now."

If not the blood loss then the illness. Pearl tries to bite down her frustration. Not that she has the energy to _think_ to leave the bed. The Lady’s chambers could catch fire right this moment, and the most Pearl could summon of herself would be to roll over and go back to sleep.

“How long...” Too raw. To speak. She coughs, and regrets it.

“Not yet a week,” she answers. “You’ve been asleep… about two days.” Her smile might mean to encourage. "The worst is past. You'll feel stronger from here on in." 

And then? What of Pearl then? Tension gathers in her chest, even through the fatigue.

"Does my commander know?" she blurts. Murder in the man’s eyes at the slightest misstep. Pearl has never gotten on his rotten side but if there was ever a shortcut there, she’s found it. “That…”

_That I’m here. That I’ve defrauded my post._

The Lady’s face is still smiling, but Pearl detects a tinge of guilt. It’s the look of a patrol who’s been caught asleep at watch. "One thing at a time."

Pearl feels the pinch of her own frown, but says nothing.

She continues with bathing. Peeling the old bandages; laving the site clean, with a warm cloth; redressing. Pearl lets her eyes haze low, only half-watching. Groggy.

“You were in the field,” Pearl hears herself.

The hands pause. Dark eyes find her again. “I was.”

“Dangerous,” Pearl mumbles. It comes out muddy. She can see her, there. Hair a vivid red and gold, ferociously bright as a signal fire as the Lady oversaw her healers. A target for anyone keen to find her. Unless her head were covered. Unless she knew how to move about.

Pearl is given no answer.

Only once her arms are redressed and clean does the Lady turn away, back to the fireside. She lifts a kettlelid and a beautiful aroma paints the inside of Pearl’s skull -- “We need some soup in you,” -- as a bowl is poured, steaming merrily.

But Pearl’s too tired for anything except irritation. She doesn’t hide it in her voice. "Will this put me to sleep as well?"

An unrepentant smile in answer. "No. It’s only soup."

It’s hard to drink. The inside of Pearl’s mouth feels worn, and foreign, and her body seems keen to reject yet another new task put up on it. But after the first sip it comes easier. And Pearl feels strength returning already as she does, hardly tasting. She asks, as the bowl pulls away, “Another?”

“Later. Let your stomach settle.” 

Yes. Sensible. Pearl’s eyes list closed. Her chin tips back, settling deeper into the feather pillow, gorgeously soft. Her earlier restlessness around the bed… it’s still there, sulking like a scalded dog at the back of her mind. But the decision’s been made. Evidently. She no longer worries herself over blood on the sheets. Let the Lady manage herself.

“You’re eager to be back again.”

Yes. It’s ill on her nerves, being this frail. Being… waited on. 

The fire crackles. It gives off a low, dragging hum as it eats up air, leaving heat in exchange. Calming. Pearl could fall asleep to it.

“It surprises me you aren’t an officer in your own right.” Something thumps; she must be rearranging items. “You’re more skilled than any I know of.”

Pearl had thought of it. At length. It would afford her more privacy from other troops, yes, but also more scrutiny from superiors. “Harder to hide,” Pearl grates. More discreet to be common infantry. 

Quiet falls again between them. Letting her gaze drift low paints Pearl’s eyelids with the soft mead colors of the firelight. Soothing. She tests a flex of her hands and must pause at the snarl of pain -- awhile yet before she grips a sword again.

A silent, frustrated breath pushes itself from her. And another. But the next is softer. She mustn’t rush. Let herself heal. God, but soon. 

“Do you think you would? If you didn’t need to hide?”

Pearl frowns. Her patience has run dry. Perhaps she can pretend to have fallen asleep. Yes. She does this. Moments pass without answer, and the sound of shuffling items by the tableside slows. 

“... are you truly _that_ angry about the tea?” There’s a touch of amusement in her voice. Pearl is, evidently, quite amusing. 

She swallows but says nothing. Eyes shut fast.

“You simply would not be refused...” She sounds almost admiring in the chide. “It was for your health, you know. And I really _do_ have nowhere else to keep you hidden.”

… there’s something to be said for that. If Pearl had thought to… but… nonetheless, she is peeved by the deception. She can feel dark eyes on her from across the room, even with her own closed. 

“Perhaps that’s why you’ve stopped calling me ‘My Lady.’”

_Oh._

Pearl’s eyes snap open, and she blinks against the sudden peal of laughter that fills the chamber, so furiously that she dizzies herself.

“No, be peaceful! It’s wonderful. Truly.” The Lady makes no effort to draw attention to Pearl’s shammed sleep, as she makes her way back to to the stool by the bedside. Perhaps it’s meant to be generous. She folds her hands in her lap and leans in, and Pearl's belly lurches at the soft lines of her face, her lips. Lord help her. “Do you know my given name is Rose?”

Pearl knows. Of course Pearl knows.

“If I’m to call you Pearl,” she’s nearly grinning if the firelight is honest, “would you call me Rose? That seems fair, doesn’t it?” 

_Oh._

Pearl’s pulse begins to pound. She can feel it. In her head. It thumps like boots on flagstones, like fleeing.

“Keep this secret for me. That I would ask you call me that.” The Lady leans closer still. 

_\-- thump-thump-thump --_

Trying to catch Pearl’s eye. The grin is there, with all the air of a schoolyard plot. “What do you think, Pearl?”

Pearl swallows and whispers, harsh, “What trick is this?”

The grin crumples. She recoils. Eyes wide, lips parted.

Pearl regrets the question almost instantly. But she can’t help it. She can’t. Surely she’s broken enough laws as is without… intimations of treason.

Perhaps -- at last -- she hears Pearl’s heart beating like an inmate against her ribs, because the Lady softens: she sits back, no longer leaning. Eyes doleful. Her words come carefully. “You have nothing to fear of me. I lay you no traps.” _Stricken._ It’s the only word that fits her expression. She stands, slow. “Name me only Lady Quartz if it pleases you.” 

Something pops in the fire, a skittering _crick!_ \-- Pearl can see the ember make an escape in the tail of her eye. Her heart begins to slow again. And Lord, did the spike in alertness take another bite from her energy.

“Rest.” The hand, ringless, pink with work, makes as though to pull the quilt up again. But it pulls back instead. “The worst is past.”

The Lady’s gaze lingers just a moment more. Then she turns. 

Pearl lets her eyes close. Swallows. She listens to the fire, only the fire, even as she hears more quiet shuffling, bottles clicking. A light doze might come. When she opens her eyes again, she’s alone, and there is another bowl of soup on the bedside table. 

* * *

The second day after her fever breaks, Pearl feels physically and spiritually possessed by a need to leave the bed. It’s slow going. Arranging her limbs into a seated position on the edge of the mattress is a success, if gingerly done. Her shoulder is a mess. Arms less so. Legs seem well enough until she tries to place weight upon them, which sends a wave of nausea from her stomach to her head and back down again, like a drunk musician’s riff.

She doubles as best she can, which is little, and focuses on the sensation of her bare feet on the… there _is_ no floor. There’s a fluffy... _rug_. Pearl nudges it aside, awkwardly, with her least damaged leg. It flops back into place. She tries again; she earns the same. Damned thing. Pearl levers deeper beneath it with her ankle and _heaves_ as though it’s a sack of grain, and it goes flumping against the wall near the window as Pearl lurches back with a satisfied wince. She wouldn’t mind having another to send flying.

But... yes. Cool stone beneath. She keeps her feet level, her hips even as her back allows. She takes a slow breath. Lets it out. And another, slower still. When she breathes to calm herself, it helps to hold something cold -- a tin mug, river rock, the pommel of a sword. It forces her to slow. 

It’s soothing. The cool. Pearl feels herself settling, slowing.

That may be all that keeps her from startling off the mattress to the floor when the voice of God thunders: “ _Daric, stonecutter, of Rilkesgate. Daric, stonecutter, of Rilkesgate.”_

The Ibex hasn’t sounded for months -- at least not that Pearl could hear. More often than not, when they’re posted out afield, the sound of the great horns is just a distant drone, barely comprehensible. But now, in the city proper, it’s hardly past the walls of the room, clear and irresistible as a lightningstrike: “ _Daric, stonecutter, of Rilkesgate.”_

Pearl’s never known anyone called to the High Court, personally. But the other men in her company liked to speculate over the fire: how long, how tedious, how grueling the procession and questioning must be. 

Poor bastard. 

Slowly, Pearl places her hands flat to the mattress, and begins to stand.

* * *

“How long will I be here?” is the first thing from her mouth when she sees the Lady next. It’s as though she’s been avoiding the room. There have been signs that she’s stopped by as Pearl slept -- fresh bread, clean water in the basin -- but it takes the medical need to pull the Lady back during daylight.

“... not much longer.” Her touch is gentle along Pearl’s tender side, studying the wound there. “You heal quickly…” 

“How much?” 

The Lady makes a face, barely visible from this angle. “I am… navigating the process of a pardon for you.” She gently taps Pearl’s elbow. “Lift, please.”

Pearl’s stomach drops, flutters. She lifts. “A pardon?”

“You heal _quite_ quickly. These are already set to come out.” Meaning the sutures, Pearl hopes. The Lady’s eyebrows quirk as she squints at the flesh of Pearl’s arm. “Have you been moving around?” 

Just pacing. Some stretching. Nothing drastic.

“It’s good to do,” she says, as though privy to Pearl’s thoughts. “Just don’t push too quickly.” She prods a moment more before turning, and reaching for another tool -- something sharp. “... and try not to draw attention to the room.”

 _A pardon._ Pearl can’t break the quiet for fear of breaking that, too. 

The Lady seems content to keep the silence as well. She works quickly, efficiently: a small sharp blade nicks at the sutures along the arm before, with small pliers, she carefully pulls them out again. It’s painless. Much smoother than the field healer. A frail _pop --_ the Lady’s uncorked a bottle with her teeth -- something to pour on cloth, something to clean the site. 

Pearl can feel eyes on her, in choice moments. Just wisps of glances. Twice it seems the Lady takes in breath and parts her lips, like she’s keen to speak, and twice she does not.

The redressing goes swiftly. When Pearl is rebandaged, and free of nearly all sutures, the Lady retreats to the far table. Certain she has Pearl’s eye, she sweeps her hand over a single file line of items.

“This,” she taps one bottle, “is to keep the wounds clean, and infection away. Use it generously. This salve keeps them from drying out, which hastens the healing time, so carry on with that. This one is for pain but I think you’re past the need for it… if necessary, use _only_ sparingly...”

Perhaps the question is too clear on Pearl’s expression. The Lady turns her hands upward, smiling into a shrug. “You’ve recovered enough to take your care into your own hands, if you prefer. I hope not to crowd.”

Oh. Pearl considers this. Surely there are other concerns to take care of beside an invalid fugitive in one of her spare rooms. She simply nods in answer, and the Lady smiles small.

“Please be patient awhile longer,” she says, turning for the door. “You’ll breathe free air yet.” 

“M-my Lady.” The words nearly creak, but they hold her at the door. She turns, looking back to the bed.

Pearl tries to wet her lips. She hadn’t noticed herself sitting further upright. “Er… thank you.”

She smiles again. When the door slips closed behind her, Pearl can swear the room has warmed.

* * *

The typical daily regimen in the years that Pearl’s served includes running, wrestling, and various exercises making use of both bodyweight and any natural surroundings -- stones, trees, whatever presented itself as convenient. But the choices are rather limited here.

She skips in place, reaching overhead at each contact with the floor, just to get her blood warm. Slowly, gingerly to start. Lacking a partner, she drills the low lunging sweep of a takedown (slowly!) across the floor, arms extended and then pulled in tight to unfoot an invisible opponent. And then backwards, sprawling, shucking her hips low and away and pressing down with her hands to shrug off an attack in kind. She paces herself. The stretching, golden heat in her legs and low back after so long stranded in bed is pure divinity, despite the cramping. 

Although… space becomes an issue. She can manage only five and a half consecutive sweeps through the open floor before meeting a wall or some other obstacle, so Pearl visualizes the best rearrangement for the full table and bedside stand, so that she may fit three more. Hesitation nips as she does. This is still Lady Quartz’s space, after all. But the craze of being cooped up for so long wrestles for top position, and Pearl works to shift ( _slowly!_ ) the furniture about.

She’s halfway through careful hip stretches on the floor when the door unlatches, and a woman shrieks. 

“Oh!” A serving girl. She drops her basket, spilling fresh linen as her hands fly to her face. “ _Oh --_ forgive me! She said you would be asleep!”

Pearl half-kneels, dumbfounded (she thwacked her knee in the startle), as the girl scrabbles to somehow recover the basket and its contents while still shielding her face from view. What’s visible around her fingers is flushed pink. “I-I can come back later… when you’re -- when you’ve --” 

“It’s alright. I… er, I’ve just finished.” Pearl’s not inclined to being sociable. But after so long in the chamber, it’s nice to see another face besides the Lady’s. Even _hers_ has been scarce of late. “Please come in.”

The girl hurries to close the door. Probably best to shave down on the screams, too. 

Her name is Philippa; she’s been sent by Lady Quartz; she’s brought fresh linens, bedclothes, bandages, bread, cheese, fruit. She steals more peeks as she talks Pearl through the contents of the basket. She’s very pretty: quick sweet smile, delicate features, hair woven up in stylish buns that Pearl has seen done but never so neatly. It’s only once the girl turns fully that Pearl sees the rose patch over her left eye, and its spiderweb of scar tissue.

She’s no less lovely for it. But the sight clenches cold in Pearl’s chest. 

“Lady Quartz told me you’re to be kept secret.” Her voice tinges apologetic.

Pearl nods, once. Slowly. Annoyed. They’re not off to a strong start with that.

Philippa smooths her apron over her knees, shifting a half-step closer to Pearl. She’s too nervous to take a seat. But excitement creeps into her voice as she speaks up again. “My father was a soldier. But I don’t see many up close.” When no chide arrives for staring, she takes in the sight of Pearl with open earnestness. She half-steps closer once more and trails her gaze along neck, arms, shoulders -- whatever the undershirt fails to conceal. And it’s quite a loose fit on Pearl. 

“Are all of those from battle?” she asks.

“... yes.”

“Oh, _wow_...” For a moment Philippa leans closer, eyes wide. Then her lip catches oddly; she blinks, twice, and straightens. Her voice turns more solemn. “You must be very brave.” 

Pearl puffs air through her nose. She shakes her head ruefully. “I’m afraid they don’t measure bravery. Only poor timing.”

She blinks rapidly, eyes wide. Then she snorts, and then _laughs_ \-- her eye crinkles with little lines, and her mouth, too. “She didn’t tell me you were _funny!_ ” 

The clench returns to Pearl’s ribs, but... warmer. The feeling doesn’t fade as they continue talking, with Pearl quietly taking in the sight of the rose patch. What does this girl’s scar measure?

Philippa’s convinced to stay awhile, and to share in some of the givings from the basket. Pearl’s had far stranger picnics: the two of them simply settle on the floor, Pearl leaning one shoulder against the bed’s footboard while Philippa folds herself carefully over another shaggy damned rug. She allows an apple to be peeled for her with the tidy little cheeseknife and talks about the stables. 

“That’s where I was posted _most_ of the time, but Lady Quartz doesn’t have near as many horses. Oh, thank you.” The apple slice is a bit too juicy -- she pops a thumb into her mouth to catch the mess. “Though she often lends me out for foaling season, especially in the dry years. Or if any visitors need especially cantankerous ones kept.” She slides Pearl a mischievous smile. “You know, most of Vunna’s royal family can hardly sit their own horses. They all arrive in a fuss by carriage, with the most _bea-uuutiful_ Andalusians trailing behind by the halters, all primped and saddled, carrying nothing but a banner…”

Pearl nods around a mouthful of bread she doesn’t much taste. She’s careful not to stare. But a surge of intention in her chest cannot be ignored, one tolling to _Find the source. Prevent a repeat._ Not even the most spirited horse could give a scar that looks like that.

“-- they have a gait like _butter,_ I mean it! They can open right up into a full gallop, and you’d hardly even notice --”

“Did a horse… ah.” Pearl swallows. Gestures to her eye. “Injure you?”

Philippa falters. (Pearl’s chest clenches again.) Fear washes over her, wholebody, but she tames it. Her elbows pull in; her chin dips. “You… you mustn’t ask me that.”

Someone to fear, then. Ugly, hollow cold sprouts low in Pearl, and she can feel her brow darken. “Lady Quartz didn’t --”

“Oh, no!” It comes as a scoff -- immediate relief. Her hand waves, and she smiles, even reaching out for another apple slice. “No, of course not. She took me in her service right after. _Demanded_ me, really.” The laugh she gives has a touch of nerves as Philippa glances away, towards the window. 

Pearl’s grip on the knife loosens. 

“I know it looks... quite bad.” A furtive glance tips her hand; she’s searching Pearl’s face for a trace of disgust. There’s none to find. “But… but it was _both_ eyes, at first.” Her lip tugs where she must be biting the inside. “I knew nothing but her voice for many weeks.” Philippa’s hand rises to touch the patch. “... she couldn’t save this one. But she tried! Truly... she mixed poultices by hand at my bedside... gave me tea for the pain.” Her shoulders lift, smiling to the window, “She would even sing when I was scared, or whenever I cri-- er --”

Philippa’s mouth twists. She snatches another apple slice from the plate and braces her elbows on her knees before she snaps it wetly in half -- then she brings the pieces inches from her pinking face, as though in solemn study. Goodness. How she can expect that to be sufficient cover, Pearl cannot understand, but a rush of protectiveness tightens her teeth against each other. 

“What I mean to say,” Philippa mumbles, tapping a piece to her lip like a penitent, “is Lady Quartz is kind. She’s… warm.” Still, she won’t quite meet Pearl’s eyes. Instead she brings the two pieces together, trying to line them up perfectly again into one whole. “And much simpler to please than the others.”

_Another Diamond, then._

One of Lady Quartz’s sisters. One of them did that to her.

Perhaps the thought shows too clearly on Pearl’s face; when Philippa meets her eyes once more, her look is anxious. 

“I should be getting back.” She at last puts both pieces out of their misery, popping them into her mouth. Chewing, she easily rocks upright to her heels and shakes the sleep from her feet. “Is there anything else I can get for you? I know you aren’t supposed to leave...” 

“... no, but thank you,” Pearl answers. Too fast. Probably should have thought more carefully. “And for keeping me company, too.” 

Halfway through dusting her hands off, Philippa freezes. She laughs, high and thready. Cheeks pinking again. “Oh, it’s nothing! Thank _you_ for sharing.” 

Pearl nods. Her fingers are sticky where they rest on her pantslegs. She’ll wash them in a moment. And maybe because she is distracted by the tackiness, she loses hold on the question, “Will you be back?”

Philippa sucks the corner of her lips into her mouth. She smiles again, though. “... I might! I’ll try to be. If you’re still here, anyway… I expect the army wants you back soon.”

Yes. Right. Pearl nods, stiff. She does not correct her.

Philippa looks pleased. “Yes! Right.” She tips a curtsy, very flippant. “Rest well, soldier Pearl.”

* * *

The light is bruising to evening when Pearl moves the furniture back. It’s harder after exercise. She takes her time, breaking often, and stretches at the burrs and knots of disuse in her low back, her knees. The left shoulder is a worry. Perhaps she should have asked Philippa to smuggle her up a sword, somehow. Begin to build her strength again.

Nevertheless. The bedside stand is easiest, and the stool. But the full table proves precarious. Shifting it too sharply left sets the bottles rattling mutiny, and a cluster of cloaks draped over the backing slips to the floor, revealing no backing at all. Instead, Pearl looks up in surprise to see herself.

A mirror.

She’s seen the lightest skein of herself in the rare pane of glass, oblong shapes of herself in tin mugs, steel plate. She’s aged. Of course she’s aged. She didn’t expect to see herself at thirteen again, obviously. Well, not _truly --_ it’s simply that that had been the last whole picture of herself. She and Gil had found the perfect lighting, once, for still water in a broad bowl. They took turns looking from the reflection to themselves, laughing. The lighting lasted just a few minutes. And then the sun shifted, and the reflections were gone. 

There are lines around her eyes. Sun, frowns, squints. A notch of dark tissue above her ear, just leading into her hairline, from a head-on blow with a shortsword when her helmet failed her -- she didn’t realize it had scarred -- and her hair, mostly the same: cropped brisk, and vivid as a matchhead. But now just sprinkled through with soft threads of white. 

The bones in Pearl’s face are more prominent now. No aching wide smile to pad them. What would Gil look like? Would they still resemble? How strange, to struggle to picture her own twin. 

She’s waist-deep in reverie as the door opens. 

The Lady again. She’s empty-handed this time, and dressed in a fine gown that turns Pearl’s eyes away. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Yes.” Pearl finds her reflection again. Do her eyebrows always slouch in like that? “Er, no. I mean -- I was... “

“Admiring yourself?”

Pearl frowns, and cuts a glance at the Lady’s feet. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“Seen..?” Her voice has gone teasing, like she expects a clever line, and her fine shoes click as she makes her way to the bed.

Pearl grunts. “A _mirror._ ”

The clicks pause. “It’s yours to use as you please, here.” Then continue. She doesn’t take a seat on the bed, though -- she only leans her hip against the footboard. Even that looks like a royal act. “Are you feeling better? Pippa said you were awake when she came by.”

Pippa?

“... Philippa. Yes.” Restless, Pearl squeezes her fingers into a fist from their place on the vanity. A knuckle pops. “She found me exercising.”

“You can call her Pippa! And ooh, yes, I see now -- you’ve moved the furniture.” No ire in her voice. That Pearl can trace, at least. She even breathes a laugh, crossing her arms. “It’s good you’re already moving about, but it sounds like you gave her quite the fright.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Pearl blurts. The thought pinches. God, she had _shrieked._

In the mirror, the Lady’s face does something odd. Some flicker between the eyes and mouth that stretches the light. But she recovers. “Of course not. No harm done.” She watches Pearl fidget against the tabletop. Then smiles, a bit toothy. “In fact, I believe she found you rather dashing.”

Pearl can feel herself frown, again. Can feel something lukewarm shift in her stomach. No answer comes. 

“She’s darling…” The Lady sighs, fond. When she tips her chin back to gaze at the ceiling, the coming dusk warms the soft skin of her neck. “I just adore her.”

Philippa spoke very warmly of Lady Quartz. Yet...

_Her nervous laugh. Her fear of the question._

“Who --” Pearl wets her lips, watching. “What happened to her eye?”

The Lady’s weight shifts, nigh imperceptible. Just a slight rock to the side. Not the question she expected. Nonetheless, she seems prepared to answer. Arms still braided over her chest, she nods, slow, once. Her gaze comes to rest on the floor before her. “She was caught. Abetting a thief, who was found rummaging in Her Majesty’s chambers.” 

Perhaps the mirror darkens the Lady’s expression too greatly. Or the dusk. Pearl cannot read it.

The Lady’s chin rises. Her throat clears, but her gaze does not leave the floor. “She was sentenced to death.” 

Death? For that? Good Lord. 

“She was… made an example of. To a full court audience.” Her throat pulls in a swallow. “Just a girl.” 

Disgust. Sorrow. Pearl could never dream how these things would be worn on a face like the Lady’s. It’s impossible to look away.

“I intervened.” Her chin rises once more, taking in the mirror. But not to watch Pearl. She meets her own eyes. “And took her. I claimed her under my name, there on the court floor.” 

Quiet falls between them. The scar around Philippa’s eyes had been old. Several years, at least. How old had the Lady been?

“... if it were now,” her mouth cinches tight, “I could have saved both eyes.” Muscle flickers in the Lady’s jaw. The bottles on the table stare back at her. “I’m so much better now. I _know_ more, now...”

Many strange feelings have occupied Pearl’s body in this damned room. Boredom, the greatest offender. Watching the Lady sift through the bones of the memory summons a new one. Not quite the urge to fill silence. Not quite the protective rush in her chest, as for Philippa. 

Perhaps the need to… offer something.

“She seems happy,” Pearl says. A touch mumbled. She watches. “Happy enough.”

It’s as though the Lady forgot Pearl was in the room. Her eyebrows pull high and she blinks, finding Pearl again in the mirror. Then she smiles. It’s… oddly frail. “I hope so.”

Something in the room... relaxes. Feels softer. Pearl nods, once, before realizing it was the tension in her shoulders.

Yes. Well. Pearl’s throat clears. “My Lady.” Pearl’s surely been branded deserter by now. Dead, at best. “My commander...”

“Ah, yes, your pardon!” The footboard creaks as she straightens upright, hands fluttering in delight. “It’s a success!”

Oh, God. Now her shoulders nearly _slump._ Pearl covers her face in her hands a moment, composing herself. She opens her mouth to offer her gratitude --

“-- with a few small conditions.”

Pearl’s mouth buttons closed. That’s fair. She finds the Lady in the mirror again, and nods. 

“... I’m sorry to say you must forfeit all rank and standing. And accept a dishonorable discharge, effective immediately.”

Where warm relief had poured now films over. Rigid, gritty. Yes: Pearl expected as much. But hearing it out loud pulls a long, wringing sigh from her. 

She simply nods again. The Lady takes the cue to continue.

“You will also need to submit to a full amendment hearing for your records. Tedious, but nothing intensive.”

Another nod. Slower, this time. Pearl’s eyes wander to the open window. She had enlisted as Gil when they were… thirteen, perhaps fourteen. Years in the field had taught her to hunt and fish, chop wood, cook. She can cut a camp well enough. Build shelter.

 _But where?_ Deserting the Imperium is yet another capital offense. And what a way to repay the pardon. Pearl knows the surrounding north, south and west after so much time afield. But getting there... 

“Do you have any other trade?”

None. They aren’t exactly easy to collect. Of course the obvious choice for a woman is marriage, but Pearl… well. She’ll hardly explain that, even _if_ the Lady asks. The sea is to the east...

She takes in air; holds it; and lets it go. 

In the mirror, the Lady is watching her. There’s a mix of amusement and trepidation on her face. “Before you go planning a daring stowaway adventure… do hear out my proposal.”

The rich fabric of her gown shifts over her thighs as she smooths her hands along them. It may be velvet. The Lady clears her throat. “I’ve put off the task of naming a personal guard for many months, now. To my sister’s great dismay.” Her cheek quirks oddly. “The security of the Imperium can become dubious at unexpected moments, and I’ve... _committed_ myself to greater personal diligence in regards to safety.”

Pearl half-nods, waiting for the point. It’s only after seconds she realizes the Lady is holding her breath.

Er. “... you want me to find you a guard?” 

The Lady stares. Then she _laughs_ and she rushes to correct, “Oh, you dear thing, I’d like you to _be_ my guard.”

“Me --!”

The reverence seeps into her voice again. She straightens, “I’ve seen you in the field. I can think of no one more suited. But that brings me to the last condition.”

The mirror has worked well. For Pearl. Watching and being watched in reflection feels easier, somehow, much lighter a load. But now the Lady steps away from the bed, to Pearl’s side.

“... I would have you face me for this.”

Pearl’s chest catches. Heart hot, high in her throat, taut with nerves. But she turns to look up. 

“Swear to me your fealty.” The Lady’s eyes are dark as the lake. “Promise me your protection. Stay by my side...” She reaches: lays her hand atop the table next to Pearl’s. “And I shall have you knighted.”

The air leaves her. Her heart drops like a copper ingot, crashing cold in her stomach. “I… a _knight?_ My Lady, that -- there’s no _possible_ \--”

“There is.” She hasn’t moved. “I can make it so.”

Pearl splutters. She casts around the room, as though a gaggle of onlookers will side with her. “Has… has there ever _been_ a woman knight?”

“You would be the first.” 

“My Lady, I…” She can’t sit. Why is she still sitting? Pearl turns away, taking to her feet again so swiftly the seat by the vanity nearly knocks to the floor. She comes to the far wall and turns, takes three steps, turns again. Suddenly the room feels quite small. 

“If I make it so, it will be so,” the Lady tells her as she paces. It may mean to be soothing. “No one would stop me.”

 _A knight._ What a way for her stars to shift. From certain death to splendor. It’s overwhelming, is what it is, and Pearl makes a scoffing sound again as she turns by the window. 

She’s been given orders for years. Abided by them for years. Unthinking. It didn’t matter: she was someone else. But here, like this, being looked in the eye and _seen_ … being called by her _name…_ and _deceived_ , as a matter of course… as if it’s expected. Pearl can’t place why it feels so differently. It nettles. 

Her feet plant by the window. “... _I_ may.” When she turns back, the Lady looks stricken. Pearl feels a scrape of regret and nearly takes back her words but no. No, it… she needs them. 

They watch each other.

The Lady finally speaks. Quietly. “I would hear your terms.” 

“If I’m -- if I’m to… be bound to you.” Pearl’s chest lurches. _Knighthood._ “... there must be no deceptions between us.”

“Yes.” Earnest. She takes a step closer.

“... no _further_ deceptions.” Pearl feels her face sour and lets it. “No more tea incidents.”

“Oh, not _this_ again.” The brightness in the Lady’s eyes goes frigid, and she very nearly rolls them. “You were being so _stubborn --”_

“The stubbornness will not fade with your favor!” 

“What am I to do, then, when you endanger yourself?”

“... you are familiar with what a knight must do? My Lady?”

“You know my meaning.” The words pop like the embers in the fireplace. “Senselessly. Recklessly, dangerously, _needlessly_ …”

“Then…. then… say so. Speak to me.” Pearl must calm her breathing. Belatedly she realizes she has been very nearly _shouting_ at a member of the royal family. But the Lady seems only focused on her words. She watches Pearl now with the intensity of a starving woman. “Hear me. Another deception, however small, however _good_ for me you may think it, then I…” Pearl swallows. “I c… cannot...”

She cannot finish the sentence. But she doesn’t need to. The Lady’s face goes slack with something like grief. Perhaps understanding, too.

“... I _will_ not.” Pearl wets her lips. The tremor in them calms. “That is my only term.”

Night has come. The fireplace has guttered low in their distraction, only beetlish clumps of embers left, and they hiss softly in the silence that stretches on. Neither has attended the candles. Pearl can just make out the curve of Lady Quartz’s cheek, the soft round of her nose, and wonders how much of her the Lady can see.

“I accept your term.” A gentle warmth comes to rest on Pearl’s good shoulder. The Lady’s hand. In the dark, Pearl’s face heats. “You have my word. You will have my blessing, my crest, and evermore a place in my home. You will have whatever lie in my power to grant you.”

Perhaps Pearl’s eyes adjust. Or perhaps the Lady shifts, just so, to catch the light from the last of the embers. But her eyes seem clear, even in the dark, and they hold Pearl at the root.

Her mouth is dry. It… there’s an expectation. Of some kind. Pearl can feel it. She swallows. “... what do I do?”

The whisper is warm. “You kneel.” 

Gently, the hand at her shoulder guides her down. A wave of dizziness comes. Not unpleasant. Pearl breathes. Her face hot as the hearth. And when she feels Lady Quartz’s hand lift from her shoulder, and be brought to her lips to kiss, the scent is all lavender.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pearl huddled in a dark corner with a cheeseknife all "I've only known horse girl for 15 seconds but if anything happened to her--"
> 
> Next: very normal and fun and low-pressure court times with the family!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn yeah... so... 2020 ya’ll, huh? I’m gonna try to get thru as much of this as I can by august but as you can see, the predicted number of parts is already creeping upward,.,.,,… 
> 
> BIG THANKS to [beyonces_fiancee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyonces_fiancee) and [TheBlindBandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindBandit) for beta and idea jamming!
> 
> [PALEZMA MADE ART OF THE FIRST CHAPTER YOOOO](https://palezma.tumblr.com/post/620917914256769024) please check out his stuff if you haven’t already, Raul is the lifeblood of knight pearl content!!

Pearl had seen Rose Quartz just the once. She’s seen Yellow Diamond far more.

About a dozen times over the years. Most often from a distance, far enough away to pinch between thumb and forefinger. A flock of guards always flanking in precision, and the bannerman with her personal emblem: the Diamond lion, white _passant,_ above a fringe of thunderbolts. The officers would scurry out to meet Yellow Diamond partway afield, and the ripple of nerves through the camp would settle to gossip and covert squinting.

Once, up close. Only once. Pearl was stationed near the captain’s tent with two of her fellows in a biting autumn drizzle. It was late. The officers had retreated inside, foul-faced after a failed ambush earlier in the day, and Pearl was caught nursing one of the tart, gnawing headaches that sometimes came with the rain. And none of it helped by the low bickering of the other two on duty.

Not the _worst_ of those possible. But neither her preference. They left her well enough alone -- most of them did -- but never gave one another a moment’s pause. She cast her eyes low to cut down on the torchlight.

“... cut off the whole damn regiment from...”

“... load of _dogshit_ is what it…”

Not her preference.

She actually fell into a guard’s fragile doze, despite the cold. The headache wasn’t helped by the short sleep they had had for the week. She was right on the filmy edge of some half-dream when the conversation stoppered with a _squeak._ Pearl’s eyes came open before she knew they needed to, just as thunder grumbled on the horizon, and there was Yellow Diamond.

Her overcloak hung heavy with water. She came with no guard, and had only just pulled the covering from her head, as rain sluiced down the severe angles of her nose, cheek, jaw. In the torchlight her eyes looked fresh-forged. Atop of her great oxblood destrier, she was like some slighted storm god, come to collect.

Pearl couldn’t see the faces of her fellows. She could only watch Yellow Diamond’s eyes cut through them both before she dismounted, uncaring of the mud.

“If you have time to prattle,” she said, and thrust the reins into the chest of one with a _thump_ , “you have time to mind my horse.”

And then she strode inside. She hadn’t even noticed Pearl.

Suppose there will be no ignoring her now.

_My sister will attempt to intimidate you. Remain calm._

Pearl’s feet come down heavy on the stone in the corridors. She doesn’t even raise her eyes to take in more than the floor, baked warm as it is by the late morning sun through the grand windows. Her heart pounds, yes.

_Answer any direct question, but ignore whatever else she may say._

She tugs at the waistband of the breeches over her hip as they turn a corner. Again. Not quite a fit. There hadn’t been much time to prepare. Lady Quartz had appeared and needed her dressed _presently --_ it could only be the hearing for her pardon.

_She may attempt to insult you, belittle you, or mislead you about what service entails._

Wordless, Lady Quartz turns a corner into another corridor. Pearl follows.

_I will speak for you. Have heart._

Two sets of eyes weigh down on Pearl as she and the Lady round to a set of double doors. Ungodly large. The castle guards at each side wear steel plate and fine weapons, far better than infantry, and their hands drift to their hips (Pearl’s, too, unthinking) as they close rank before the doors. But Lady Quartz nods and flicks the back of her hand. One thumps the door twice; it creaks open. The guards stare heavy bolts at Pearl who meets them, and returns her own.

This is no courtroom. Much too small. It’s enormous by its own right, braced with broad bay windows that let the afternoon pour in, but seems more dedicated to extended meetings and informal meals. There’s little more than a long oaken table lined with a dozen chairs. A set of doors at the far wall swings open for two serving girls, and kitchen sounds filter out after them. Another pair of guards flank each window. The serving girls move quickly: they lean and reach across the table, clearing it of glasses, napkins, plates -- perhaps from earlier guests of (Pearl’s mouth goes coarse) the two Diamonds seated at the nearest end.

Yellow Diamond pauses midsentence. She is faced away from the door, in profile, and barely turns her chin as the attendant stammers, “Er, ah, Lady Rose Quartz --” to watch her sweep towards the table.

“... well then.” The oaks clicks as Yellow Diamond places her glass to the table. “Let’s out with it, Rose. And quickly. What is it you want _this_ \--”

The doors shut behind them, just as Yellow Diamond finds Pearl.

Pearl swallows. _Tries_ to. She may as well have been lanced to the wood.

She tears her eyes from the blaze of Yellow Diamond’s just long enough to glance at the eldest sister. Pearl’s never seen Blue Diamond. Few do. Rumors are of frailty and rumors are correct. Her face is narrow, and chin low, with a pallor long and silver as a flute. Her shoulders downturn beneath her gown, worn down beneath some endless weight. She may need a round with Rose Quartz herself.

The Lady ushers with fingertips to Pearl, stuck fast by the doorway. And wood screeches against stone as Yellow Diamond pushes to her feet and posts her fists upon the table and booms: “ _No.”_

Rose Quartz holds. She turns to glance at Pearl, completely for effect. Then back again. Airily, she says, “Yes.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I thought you should see her yourself.”

Her hand sweeps out curtly from the wrist. “Out.”

The guards step forward, but “You will _not,”_ from Lady Quartz stops them in their tracks. They waver. Then look across the table to Blue Diamond. Her eyes are pinched shut, and she sighs, already massaging her temple.

“There’s no _need_ for theatrics.” Yellow Diamond’s posture rises partway. She pauses, not quite glancing around the room; then she straightens. “We’re already here, Rose. Already prepared to arrange whatever little prize you have in mind. What is it this time?” Her voice gutters. “Another garden?”

Lady Quartz seems not to hear. Her voice is cool as the stone. “You’ve hardly even looked at her.”

She truly couldn’t _say_ it some other way? Every eye in the room fixes upon Pearl.

… she shifts her weight.

Yellow Diamond pulls in air. The heavy lines of her brow pull down. Her chin has _just_ begun to turn ominously towards the rest of the room when the serving girls suddenly avert their eyes -- and lean to finish clearing the table -- and cut a hasty retreat to the side kitchen. Though one drops a napkin. The guards simply avoid her eye.

Then (Pearl’s molars lock) Yellow Diamond approaches. The leather in her boots is new enough to creak. She splits the sunlight through the window as she rounds the table, and brushes too close past the Lady to be polite.

Pearl keeps her eyes forward. As any soldier would. Even as Yellow Diamond’s face comes close enough to force a draft along her cheek. Tension takes Pearl by the jaw and she feels the skin at the back of her neck bunch.

But still. She watches the far wall. In the corner of her eye, Lady Quartz watches them both.

Yellow Diamond takes her time. She’s close enough to observe, even as Pearl stares straight ahead. The little ridges of color around each iris are talon-gold, and yes, they fairly pull Pearl apart: the string of muscle in her neck that flickers as she resists swallowing, the tremble in her cheek. The twitch in the corner of her mouth. Pearl can smell weak noontime wine from whatever previous meeting, smells ink and talcum. Perhaps they were writing. Too late now to see.

The air loosens. It seems Yellow Diamond’s shoulders relax -- that she will step back, and leave Pearl unscathed. But then Pearl’s chin is taken in a strict grip and turned unkindly to the left. Yellow Diamond makes an odd sound. Not quite a snort. Pearl can feel every hair on the back of her neck like a bouquet of poniards and this time she does swallow.

Her chin is hooked and pulled down, nearly to her chest. To show the top of her head. Yellow Diamond says nothing, but her boots shift, like she’s moving about for different angles.

 _Ah._ Humiliation cuts: she’s scrutinizing Pearl for mites.

But then she’s released. Incredible. The relief. Air comes back to her.

Moreso when Yellow Diamond turns back to Lady Quartz. “Look at her.” She scoffs. “I’d be amazed if she could _hold_ a sword.”

The Lady is unflapped. And yet to take a seat. “She’s spent weeks recovering from injuries incurred in _your_ service. Service in which she made short work of no fewer than a dozen. Likely more, before I --”

“‘Injuries’? _Maimed,_ I say. You think I’ll have a cripple guarding your life?”

“She’s durable. Heals quickly.”

Yellow Diamond grunts. “And frequently.”

“All the better. You can’t say she suffers from a weak stomach.”

Pearl means to stare ahead, bland. At attention. But she can feel herself frown. _This_ can’t be the hearing for her pardon. Can it? They sound like marketside hagglers.

Yellow Diamond rounds back on Pearl, and holds out her palm. “Your arm.”

Pearl offers. When Yellow Diamond yanks the wrist to better inspect her hand, she does not flinch.

“She’s still injured,” Lady Quartz hisses, less cool now.

“She’d better get used to it.” Yellow Diamond stares hard. Like she’s willing a hole in the front of Pearl’s skull.

Good soldiers look ahead.

Another grunt. Almost. More of a breathless sound, not even worth the air. Yellow Diamond searches Pearl’s hand. She inspects the fingers for breaks or crooks in the bone. Tests the muscles in her wrist. Pauses. And Yellow Diamond’s _hand_ claps down on Pearl’s shoulder (don’t stumble) and presses down, as though to unfoot her.

“ _What_ are you --” the Lady takes a step --

The attention cuts to Pearl’s other arm and she’s grabbed there, and this time Pearl _does_ flinch. Yellow Diamond grips the thumb in one hand and Pearl’s fingers in the other, and pulls. “You are left-handed.”

“I,” Pearl’s throat wants to pinch shut, “I --”

“Both,” Rose Quartz says. “She can use both.”

Yellow Diamond says nothing. She lets the hand drop. Then takes a step back, simply studying Pearl. It’s not an angry look. Not revolted. Not even suspicious. It simply strips Pearl down to her base components. In that gaze, talon-gold, Pearl is sorted and sifted: piles of bone, blood, sinew and skin, and accordingly weighed for value. And the scales waver.

No further mention is made of Pearl’s handedness. But Yellow Diamond’s mouth does pucker at the corner. “I’ve seen more muscle on washerwomen.”

“Less muscle uses less air. It aids her stamina.”

“Too long. And scrawny. I’ve no plate that would fit her.”

Ah; the coolness is back. “Have I not my own smith?”

“Oh, you _do_ now, don’t you?” Her voice pulls high again, irritable. Like she’d forgotten. Yellow Diamond turns back to fix Pearl with a glower. “She looks like she’s been _chewed._ ”

“She’s to be the Knight of Roses.” Pearl’s eyes are pulled to hers. They are dark, and they soothe. “Only fitting that she and thorns look well-acquainted.”

Lady Quartz clearly came prepared.

Pearl tears her eyes away. To watch the floor between their feet. And Yellow Diamond turns away. She takes two paces; and twitches, like she wants to whip back around. But she resists.

Pearl dares: a glance at Blue Diamond. She’s peering at whatever document from before, whatever writing. Fingers to her temple. Finishing her glass. Her bearing is utterly indifferent, as though she’s in a separate room altogether.

She looks back just in time as Yellow Diamond returns. She sizes Pearl up again, from her heels, to the ill-fitted breeches, to the jut of her breastbone, to her chin. Any soldier’s posture. And then she makes an odd sound -- not a laugh. Not quite the grunt from before, either. But she does it once, and turns to peer hard at her sister. “A far cry from your typical fare.”

 _Fare?_ Pearl doesn’t chance the glance to the Lady. Not when Yellow Diamond so quickly turns back to face her.

Pearl feels the back of her teeth and breathes. Somewhere, off in the kitchen, metal clangs. Water runs. A voice rises in irritation; one in apology, too.

One of the guards shifts. A bone in his foot pops.

“My Diamond.” The attendant breaks the torturous quiet, and the doors pull open again. “Commander Mallory and his lieutenant.”

Yellow Diamond stifles a sigh. Or tries to. “I’d nearly forgotten.” She sweeps back to the table but eschews a seat, instead propping herself against the edge with her arms crossed.

Pearl shoots a glance at Lady Quartz. Her eyes are hard at her sister’s back.

“Apologies for the wait, My --” Commander finds Pearl. He squints as he does when someone’s earned penalty rounds. “... My Diamond.”

His boots and cloak are still muddy, though there’s been no rain in days. They leave traces of grime on the stone as he steps farther into the chamber. His lieutenant follows, wordless, watching Pearl like she’s already been relieved of her head.

Commander clears his throat. “We have unsolved matters with the treaty formation --”

“Commander.” The one word snaps his mouth shut. “You are familiar with this soldier. Yes?”

His throat bobs. He turns somewhat, no longer pretending not to see. But still: he takes Pearl in only sideways. “... I am. This is Gilroy.” Delicate. Uncertain. Perhaps weighing in which direction to testify. When Yellow Diamond says nothing, he continues. “... bit of an odd duck. Tends to keep to himself. But a fine hand on the field.”

“How well on a horse?”

“Ah…” Clearly, not the meeting he expected. “We haven’t so many to spare.”

“I see.” Yellow Diamond drums fingers against the table. She takes in breath, and clears her throat. “And with a blade?”

“Very skilled.” Commander’s bearing warms. With the neutral air in the room, he seems to be leaning towards a favorable report. “One of our best. I often have him in my platoon personally.”

“Yet you’ve never considered him for an officer?”

“... I’m afraid he lacks… presence.”

If only. Every eye fixes on Pearl again.

But Yellow Diamond hums. She nods to the floor a long moment. One hand goes to her chin. “When’s the last you saw of him?

“... er, well.” One hand comes unclasped behind his back to flap, lame, at the Lady. “Your good sister, after Silverhill. She said his injuries were too grievous for the tent.” He avoids looking at either of them directly. “She saw fit to have him taken. To, er… oversee personally.”

She turns a cold eye. “She _did,_ didn’t she.”

Lady Quartz meets the gaze.

“... and how long has this soldier served?”

“Oh… perhaps ten years. Beneath me, just a few, now.” Commander’s relaxing. The scrutiny is elsewhere. His fists even unclench at his sides. “A fine hand,” he repeats. “Steady with a blade.”

“I see.” Yellow Diamond nods, easy. “And at any point were you aware she was a woman?”

The windows must oversee some courtyard. Perhaps a hound is loose there, because in this -- this next, far more brutalizing stretch of silence, barking can be heard. Someone whistles.

Behind the commander, the lieutenant’s eyes widen to the size of saucers; he slowly, silently thumps a fist downward into his open palm.

Pearl can hardly meet the Commander’s eyes before looking back to the wall. She can feel him staring. Trying to add it up. Perhaps standing here, even in her ill-fitted clothes, the silhouette at last clicks into place for him.

“A… a --”

“A _woman,_ commander, serving beneath you for _years_ of your own admission _._ ” Yellow Diamond stands square, and steps forward. “How do you possibly explain this ineptitude.”

Poor bastard.

“M… My Diamond, I --”

But she’s already turned, disdain slicing him to the quick. Instead she aims at Pearl. “And what about you. How did you keep from anyone reporting you?” She leans, arms crossed. “Bribery?”

Pearl can hear someone breathing. Near a wheeze. It might be the commander. It’s only when Pearl skims a glance at Lady Quartz, who nods small but urgent, that she realizes she’s expected to answer.

Yellow Diamond looms closer. Frost might form on the windows. “ _How._ ”

“... I…” Pearl’s throat sticks. “... I don’t talk much.”

It’s a small sneer. But unmistakable. Just before Yellow Diamond turns back to the commander, the sneer gives way to something else. It’s very near weariness. But then she goes. Tension bunches in her shoulders. “Commander.” (He straightens, tremulous.) “We will discuss the treaty terms at our next meeting. You will be half an hour early.”

“My Diamond.” His voice has steadied, at least.

“We will also discuss the full scope of necessary adjustments to your command.”

A chill runs down the rift of Pearl’s back. The commander simply nods, once, nerveless.

“Dismissed. You, as well,” Yellow Diamond adds to the attendant. “I expect no one else before evening.”

“Nor do I,” Lady Quartz adds. Both Diamonds glance in irritation.

The commander, lieutenant and attendant each tilt a bow, and take leave. As the door closes behind them, the lieutenant can be heard in a gush, “It just makes a _lot_ of sense, actually --”

Yellow Diamond waits for the door to close completely to clear her throat. “So. My _dear_ baby sister --” and rounds on Lady Quartz, “-- sees fit to smuggle some stray into one of her _tryst_ closets before attempting to knight them.”

Lady Quartz says nothing.

“Clearly I’ve underestimated your appetite for scandal.”

“You underestimate in general. It’s much larger than a closet.”

“ _Don’t,_ Rose.” She’s drifted back to the table and braces a hand. “For once, resist making this about _you._ ”

“I’m afraid I have quite a bit to do with my personal guard.”

“She will serve as your _first_ guard. And _I_ will select the next.” Yellow Diamond’s eyes close, very briefly. A muscle in her jaw pulls. “And you will take her to Records immediately.”

“She’ll have time to --”

“No. _Immediately._ I will condone your poor judgment for the purposes of your education. But I will not abide any further confusion on the state of…” Yellow Diamond whips her hand out towards Pearl. “ _This._ ”

“She needs proper clothes and a bath. To the best of my education, there’s no discernible legal difference between breakfast time and lunch.”

“Perhaps I was unclear.” She pulls, tall. “You are so compelled by my position.”

The Lady’s face twists. It’s something disdainful and daring. She even leans closer as she fires back, “And what exactly would _Mother_ say about --”

 _Clang!_ Blue Diamond’s cup clatters and she groans aloud, “For God’s _sake,_ Rose.”

The Lady pulls back, eyes wide. Her lips part. She looks surprised, and guilty.

… as does Yellow Diamond.

“I’m…” The Lady steps nearer the table. “I’m only --”

“I feel ill.” She sounds it. Her voice trembles at the tail of her words. Blue Diamond turns her chin scarcely enough to address the guard nearest her elbow. “Take me back.”

Two of them step forward to assist. Wood scrapes as they edge the chair back gingerly, and rummage the glasses aside. One carefully rolls up the document upon the table.

The other two royals watch, silent. It seems they need a moment to recover.

When Yellow Diamond speaks again, the weariness is back. The words are forced through the grit of her teeth. “This little scrimmage with our neighbors will be over within the month. We will hold a tournament in celebration.” Her expression is anything but. “When your new curiosity embarrasses you, I will appoint a suitable replacement. And I will _not_ need your approval.”

She turns with no answer. Blue Diamond is already being assisted through the doorway by the elbow. When Yellow reaches to help, Blue tugs her arm away harsh enough to nearly stumble.

The doors close once more. And, once more, Lady Quartz and Pearl are left alone.

(Except for the staff. As best as Pearl can see, the kitchen door is still ajar.)

Lady Quartz puffs a sigh, and smooths her hands down the front of her gown. “Well.” Her gaze wanders oddly around the room for a moment before she smiles. It fits as poorly as the breeches. “That could have gone _far_ worse.”

It might have gone better, as well. Pearl clears her throat halfway. And once more, when it fails to unstick. “C… can I sit?” She feels strangely winded.

The Lady’s face flashes concern. She leads Pearl to a corner seat. Already, she’s reaching for Pearl’s shoulder. “Did she harm you here?”

She shakes her head, sharply, and shies from the touch. No. It has far more to do with spending years scarcely _seeing_ a Diamond to finding herself in the all-too close company of two. And with hardly any warning.

Pearl tries not to grimace. She angles a look to the Lady, who settles in right beside, at the head of the table. The soft lines of her lips are pressed in thought. “Hmm... we may as well, while we’re here.” She waves to one of the serving girls peeking around the doorway. “Good morning! Sorry to be late. Is there any breakfast left?”

_Breakf--_

Faint nausea tickles her mouth. Pearl had only meant a moment’s rest. “Shouldn’t… aren’t I supposed to --”

“Yes, we will.” The Lady raises a hand to one of the servers again down the length of the table. “Oh, nothing fancy, just the basics, please.”

As suspected, the kitchen bustles back to action. Likely they had watched the entire spectacle unfold.

“... My Lady.”

“Mm, yes.”

“Should we really be here still?” Pearl knew only the broad strokes about the royal family, prior to this morning. Now she feels rather... _over_ informed. If Lady Quartz is interested in getting a dig in as an act of sibling rivalry, Pearl would rather the stakes not include her pardon.

She looks to Pearl at last. Just sideways, just so. The glance lasts a moment too long to be incidental. It’s as though the Lady can look into Pearl’s eyes and read the thought on the inside of her skull.

Someone bickers from the kitchen. A knock; something wooden.

The Lady’s throat clears. She leans, just slightly. Pearl gets a waft of her perfume as the Lady guides her eye, pointing through one of the enormous windows. “You see, there? The building like a cone? That’s Records.” She shifts back in her seat. Hopefully Pearl hasn’t pinked. “Hardly a stone’s throw. What I’m not certain of is how long your amendment will take. So, best to get _something_ in while you can.”

Two of the servers come by with bread, jams, a teapot. Pearl can feel their eyes on her. She looks to see if either is Philippa. Impossible to place their ages -- they move too quickly to get a good look atof either.

“Mm... and armor, after.” Mostly to herself. Simply thinking aloud. The Lady’s eyes pinch as she’s poured tea. “The quicker you’re fitted, the quicker it’s made. Though... in honesty, I’m not sure how long that will take.”

Armor? Pearl shakes her head. “I have leather plate.” Not _with_ her, obviously. But she doesn’t need more.

Lady Quartz’s mouth quirks. She shakes her head. “Metal plate _only_ , I’m afraid. They won’t let you compete without it.”

“Compete?”

“Mm. In the tournament. It’s a while away yet, but -- oh --” She reaches to tap the elbow of the girl pouring tea. “Could you be a dear and bring the peach preserves, instead?”

The bedside manner is all but gone. Lady Quartz is brisk, now. Still full of charm -- particularly in comparison to recent company -- but Pearl can better see the shape beneath it, now. The structure. Like a fine silk scarf wrapped too well around a waist, betraying the dagger’s outline.

Pearl’s teeth find her lip. “What will I need to do in the tournament?”

“Well... there’s the single sword, and the melee… jousting…” Lady Quartz taps a finger to her chin, forming a dimple. “... to be honest, I haven’t attended many.” She takes in air to add something… but abandons the line of thought. “You’ll have plenty of time to prepare.”

“A month isn’t much time,” Pearl mutters, before she can stop herself. Lord. Part of her shrivels tightly, that she would _approach_ such a tone with a Diamond, but irritation wins out. Perhaps all the time cooped up has affected her mind.

Though Lady Quartz takes no offense. “Ah. Well. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” She shows her palms in a shrug. Smiling -- _sheepish_ , even. “Do you know I’ve never had a guard before?”

Yes. About that.

“You haven’t touched a thing.” The Lady’s plate clinks as she sets her cup too near. “Nerves?”

Pearl considers. Yes. She nods, stiff.

“Hmm. Well, have some tea, at least -- oh, don’t make such a face, _I_ had no hand in it.”

It does help, actually. The tea. And much better than she’s used to. Decent tea isn’t quite rare in camp, but more often than not it’s some patchwork mix hastily boiled in a single mug, or the odd steel helmet. And then hurriedly drained at any unexpected call. A burnt throat is not uncommon.

Odd, now. To be here. If this isn’t some elaborate, near-death fantasy cobbled together by her brain, Pearl may never have a weak cup or numb tongue again. The feeling is strange.

She’s nearly drained the tea when she looks up to see she’s not alone in reverie. Lady Quartz’s expression is fixed as she frowns at the grain of the table. It gives her lips a fuller shape, and shows a wrinkle in her brow heretofore undetectable. Even her head is at a slight tilt, as though she’s listening to something very quiet, very far away. The peach preserves are untouched.

Pearl wets her lips. “... my Lady?”

“Mm?” Her chin rises, and she glances about the table until they come again to Pearl. Like she briefly forgot where she was seated. “Yes?”

Perhaps she’s pushing her luck. Pearl clears her throat. “Is there… ah...”

The Lady’s eyebrows perk.

“Was this a hearing?” There’s a tinge of skepticism Pearl doesn’t intend. Of _course_ she’s pushing her luck. She seems to be doing that more by the day.

But the only punishment is another one of those smiles. The quiet, coalish kind. Before Silverhill, it might have made Pearl’s knees weak. Now it makes her eyes sharp.

“Not as such, no.” The Lady’s fingers drum idly against her glass. Their rings _tink_. “But you _are_ pardoned. Believe that.”

Pearl would like to. Truly. And again, she does poor work hiding her thoughts.

At least the Lady’s amusement is as easy to see. And hear, as well. “You worry she’ll go back on her word?”

A relief not to say aloud. Pearl hesitates, but nods.

“Well. No fears there. My sister is _many_ things, but ‘liar’ is not among them. This was a pardon in function, without all the fuss.” Her lips twitch at the corner. “You don't strike me as the type to prefer a fuss.”

… Pearl shifts in the seat.

“-- mm, though I suppose there must be _some_ fuss, what with the knighting.”

Ah. “And... when will that be?”

Something odd and unqueenly happens with her lips. The shape changes. The thoughtful pause between them both holds for several moments before Pearl realizes that the Lady is chewing the inside of her cheek. “… I'm not certain. As I said, I've never named a knight... but no worries!” Her tidy, friendly smile returns. “The hardest part is over.”

Seems a phrase she's fond of. Pearl tries not to let her brow furrow as she lets her eyes fall to the table. She certainly doesn’t _relish_ doubt. She would _like_ to be reassured. But if the familial squabbling is any indication, Lady Quartz has an overgenerous estimate of that with which she can take liberties.

She is the youngest of the Diamonds, yes. And as such the least powerful. For all her privilege, Rose Quartz’s title is merely _Lady;_ she is a Diamond by blood and blood alone.

“I caught them between meetings,” the Lady says suddenly. It unseats Pearl from her thoughts. The Lady looks to the kitchen door, still stood ajar, and Pearl follows suit... and just barely misses the eye of one of the serving girls. “It’s often the best time to expedite proceedings.”

Ah.

“You wanted an audience,” Pearl blurts, and good _Lord_ how could that sound like anything but an accusation?

But no reproach arrives. The Lady’s eyebrows only quirk as she brings her glass to her lips. “It certainly doesn't hurt.”

“... My Lady.” Pearl’s hands brace atop the table as though she means to rise. She’s careful to keep her voice low. But it does tremble. “Did you truly name me as your guard based on my skill?” This surpasses merely _pushing_ her luck. Pearl’s mouth decides to give it a hearty shove. “Or was it to keep Yellow Diamond from naming one for you?”

Another smile. Another damned smile.

“It can't be both?” The Lady actually _shrugs._ “Besides. Once I saw you, I couldn't go about my business, knowing you might be exposed... it would be certain death.”

… yes. Yes, it’s very true. The irritation that’s eaten at Pearl in nibbles and bites for days, now, tapers to a low point. She feels gently chastised.

"Having an audience does help.” The Lady’s cup conceals her lips as she watches the kitchen door. “My sister is quite vain. She wants things to appear as though they are so _only_ because she sees fit… an arrangement easily made in a private courtroom." She takes a slow sip. Pretends to, at least. "But a happenstance witness, or three, or twelve, simply going about their duties, beyond reproach? ” Lady Quartz makes an odd sound in her throat. If it’s a laugh, there’s no other sign of it. “By suppertime, the whole province will know what the Diamonds discussed over breakfast. She cut her losses. And wisely so.”

The kitchen has quieted again. Whether for a brief respite, or if workers have filtered out to the main kitchens and other duties, Pearl cannot say.

She glances to the grain of the table. Then back to the Lady. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To abide by your term. Your one term.” There’s no amusement in her voice, now. No smile. Rose Quartz meets Pearl’s eyes in dark earnest. “If there are to be no secrets between us, you ought to understand why I make the choices that I make.”

Warmth winds Pearl around the neck before she can break the gaze. Back to the table. Back to the grain of the wood. Pearl nods, once. She doesn’t trust her tongue not to stick.

“Besides.” And just like that, the cheek is back. “I suppose that would make it easier for you to guard me with your --”

“ _Stella, dyster, of Norfolk._ ” The Ibex has Pearl nearly startle out of her seat, like she’s barked a shin. It thunders just beyond the wall. “ _Stella, dyster, of --_ ”

"Oh, w --” The Lady grimaces. “ _Shit._ " Her hands clap to the table and the edges of her mouth stretch. When she looks again to Pearl it’s with delicate calculation. “I must leave you. But we… hmmm.”

A moment’s thought. Then she reaches beneath the dazzling curls, behind her neck. She unclasps the fine golden chain, there, and its pendant: the Diamond lion in red. She takes Pearl’s hand (the nerves there _glitter_ ) and presses it, chain and all, firmly into her palm. "Straight to Records. Yes? If anyone tries to trouble you, just show them this. I’m sure there’s no need to tell you not to lose it."

Pearl stares down at the metal in her hand. Easily worth the lives of her company on the field, twice over. But she forces the dread down with a grimace; she’ll need to grow accustomed to expensive things. "I just… show up?"

“It’s been a whole twenty minutes.” Lady Quartz waves a grand hand to the window as she stands. “I’m sure they’re already waiting for you.”

* * *

There’s something to be said for the order of the line. Pearl never wavered over where she was to be, and no one ever afforded her a second glance. Just another set of boots on the ground. She blended in like all the rest of them: rows of boiled leather, and riverbeds of helmets. Scattered and squatting fireside at dark.

Now she is strange. Feels it, too. Outside the standard mold of leather plate, and without a line of other soldiers to round out appearances, she looks less like a man. But she certainly looks little like a woman.

She's drawing stares. Yes. Pearl averts her eyes.

It would suit Pearl fine, turned loose into the world, if no one else were around. Only Pearl -- hillside, with some luck. Syrupy sun and rolling grass. Perhaps some running water, a little shade. The nearest she’s ever gotten to that was on patrol, far away from the others. Just herself. Those were good moments. They were the calmest she’s ever felt, and the lightest, as though the solitude relieved her of some final layer of leather.

Lady Quartz was correct: Records is not far. Mercifully. Fireside gossips say the building is full of nesting rats, and debtors’ bones, though of course no soldier Pearl knows has ever reported.

Instead, once a year, a cadre of scriveners would find them afield, or wherever they were barracked. They would appear with _wagons_ stuffed with bundles of papers and set about organizing and piling and lining up the soldiers by name. They would ask questions, and verify what was previously documented, and update each soldier all on their current debt to the Crown and send them on their way.

Apparently, all those papers made their way back here.

For all its importance, Pearl would expect guards. She waits to be confronted on the steps leading to the entrance; but none arrive.

Curious.

In other circumstances she may wait; she’s fumbled shifts, herself, and knows well the trouble it can cause. But time runs precious. She tests the handle of the door, and finds it unlocked -- more than that, it gives way easily.

Pearl takes in air. She feels the pendant hard and unfriendly against her chest, and steps through the entrance.

It’s dark. And cool as a cavern. She stops just inside the foyer, and waits for her eyes to adjust. The smell of paper is no surprise, but wax, too, warm and brassy. Oil. Earth. Something powdery and piney that Pearl fails to place.

The light settles: she can see clearly where she’s meant to walk, and see the walls. It’s not inviting, as foyers go. Simple and square and barren. Neat brick floor but haggard stone walls.

Pearl frowns.

The possibility that she’s arrived through the wrong entrance is just creeping to mind when a portion of the far stone wall wedges open with a gritty crackling. The figure in robes that pushes through sees Pearl, and sighs, _“Finally,”_ and strides over.

Untouched, the stone wall grates closed again.

“I’m… er, Lady Quartz --”

“Yes, I know, you’re here on appointment, Rose Quartz’s personal guard, dishonorable discharge. You’re guilty of forgery and fraud.” She only looks up from her sheaf of papers to briefly squint into Pearl’s face. “ _That_ goes in your record, by the way.”

Pearl stares. The woman comes up to her sternum, just barely. She scrutinizes Pearl a moment longer from behind her pince-nez (which she twitchily adjusts), and then resumes squinting down at her sheaf in hand.

“Alright, let’s be quick about this. I am the junior eminent scrivener Peridot who will be amending your record, so please actually be who you say you are, and don’t lie about anything, because I _shouldn’t_ have to do this _three_ times.” She waves a hand with hardly a second glance at Pearl, and begins to lead her to the far side of the foyer. Another door scrapes open, camouflaged perfectly against the stone. She takes one step inside... and pauses. “Are you allergic to cats?”

Not to her knowledge. Pearl shakes her head.

“Good. Not that it would really matter, but…” She mumbles something. Then leads inside.

The temperature drops instantly as though night. That alone gives Pearl pause. But she outright balks when the silhouette of Peridot’s head suddenly drops several inches… but then it drops again, and again. Ah. A staircase. She takes a cautious step, meaning to follow --

“ _Watch it!_ ”

Stepped on her robe. Pearl grunts. “It’s dark.”

“Light fades ink.” There's an undertone of _Obviously._

She leads Pearl downward to yet another room. Or corridor? It _feels_ small -- difficult to tell. But _finally,_ Pearl can make out the flicker of torches… candles? She blinks twice, to make certain she’s seeing correctly.

The room is more expansive than she thought. There are rows and rows of small tables -- at least a few dozen that Pearl can see -- stretching far, far to the wall in a loose grid. Each is manned by someone in robes. Pearl cannot make out much of their faces, hunched over as they are, but each tends to a tower of papers stacked nearly past their heads. As she watches, a few pause to grab pinches of sand; they sprinkle it over the pages before they deposit them aside. The pens scratch like rats in the walls.

Peridot bustles past the rows without a second glance. She’s already halfway to the next chamber when Pearl startles, and strides to catch up.

“What are they doing?” She keeps her voice low, but one of them seems to glance her way. Difficult to say, with the hood.

“Papers crack, and ink fades. Even without much light. They transcribe old records into new pages.”

Pearl feels her eyes widen. “They can read?”

“The _scribes?_ ” Peridot scoffs. “You don’t need to read to copy.”

She minds herself the remainder of the walk. Another staircase. Another chamber, another turn. A corridor narrow enough to bridge a sword. The cold fails to favor Pearl. She’s just begun to think longingly of her woolen infantry cloak when Peridot turns, and shoulders open a wooden door with a _grunt._

What first strikes Pearl is actual _sunlight._ Sunlight? She blinks, too hard -- yes. How? No torches line the room. It’s unmistakably sunlight.

It’s also ringed with half a dozen desks. They are all propped, somehow, at varying levels, tiered like some drunken wedding cake. On each flat surface there lay papers, scattered like dragon scales, and inkpots, and stamps, and twine, ribbon, candles, oil lamps. No fewer than a dozen cats lounge on the desks in various states of repose. A peppery grey tom perches like a gargoyle from a far shelf lined with books, glaring down at Pearl. It seems to be the only one awake.

Peridot’s already partway to the second highest desk. She unearths a footstool from some chaos of crates that appear to contain supplies. Blandly, she says, “Series of mirrors.”

“... what?”

“Series of mirrors. In a tunnel.” Peridot jabs a thumb to a large, glassed-in opening, high on the farthest wall at the back of the room. Pearl would call it a skylight in a typical building. In a building aboveground. Peridot’s tone tips from boredom to sour disdain. “You were going to ask about the light. Weren’t you?”

Pearl was. “No.” _Not_ that she will admit that. “I was going to ask why there are so many cats.”

“Mice _love_ to nest in paper.” Peridot grunts. “You’re not too humble about not knowing much.”

Pearl feels her face… make a face. But she says nothing.

As Peridot perches at her desk a stubby yellow tabby leaps into her way. It plops onto its side, square in the center of the workspace. But Peridot doesn’t snap or shove the thing flying to the floor. Instead, she mutters something indulgent-sounding, and scoops the cat into her lap. The purring might be loud enough to hear aboveground.

“Ahem. Yes.” One hand dedicates itself to the tabby’s ears while the other rearranges her sheaf of papers in a fan before her. She peers along the breadth of them for a moment, face alight with thought... then she takes up her pen. “Right then. ‘Gil’... was your twin.”

“... yes.” Pearl doesn’t know how to place the feeling.

“So… let’s see… we have to pick out what to keep. _Ugh.”_

They begin. Pearl’s original record was destroyed, of course, when she passed off Gil as herself. But it’s mostly the same. Hair color, eye color, age, trade. No children. No marriage. No land or known relations. Peridot prompts and Pearl answers, to the best of her knowledge, for all the Diamonds require.

“‘Identifying marks and scars’…” Peridot scarcely glances up before wrinkling her nose. “ _Numerous_ …”

It’s a wonder her pince-nez stays rooted.

At the completion of each page, Peridot douses the sheet with sand, and gently shakes it before blowing. The inky grains are funneled into a broad-mouthed jar, and the page deposited aside -- the same as the scribes. An easier task with a speck of sunlight.

They confirm or deny other pieces from Gil’s record. It is tedious. Cats shift their sleeping positions and reach, stretching. At one point, Peridot reads through four full sheets without saying a word. The silence is broken only by the scrape of paper as she turns each page. Pearl wonders what isn’t read aloud.

Halfway through corroborating the yearly progression of her debt to the Crown, Peridot pauses to peer down at Pearl. It’s the first she’s placed her pen aside since starting. “How did you remember that?” Her tone is implacable. But she doesn’t wait for Pearl’s confusion. “The totals. You named almost every one perfectly, in order -- _including_ interest.”

Pearl peers back at her. The monotony of the entire process has left her brain feeling like a bowl of porridge. After a moment, she realizes Peridot sounds _impressed._

But that doesn’t give her any answer. Pearl shrugs with her mouth, and her eyebrows.

“Huh.” The chair creaks as Peridot sits back. Her face is thoughtful as she scratches the tabby beneath the chin. “There was an alewife I recorded who could do something like that. And a few merchants, now that I think about it… but all of them work with money. They don’t let soldiers handle _money._..”

Pearl’s mind wakes up at that. Her brow pinches. “ _They_ submit records?”

And as quickly as it arrived, the impressed air vanishes. Peridot scoffs. “Obviously. _You_ submit a new record review every year, don’t you?”

Pearl says nothing. Of course she had -- has -- along with the rest of the enlisted. But for some reason, she assumed it was only for military.

Peridot indulges a few moments more in indulging the tabby. Then she hunches forward again, takes up her pen, and resumes.

Time passes in silence. Pearl’s feet have begun to ache. It occurs to her that this feels like more of a court proceeding than her “pardon.” She’s near enough to watch the flicker of the pen on the page, and the stream of black left behind. Scriveners assigned to the military never allowed the enlisted to _see_ the pages. Pearl never knew there were so many.

The sunlight has changed. It must be late afternoon, now. All in silence, except for the scratch of the pen. Peridot finally looks up, and hisses, “Would you quit _staring?_ ”

Pearl’s not snappish by habit. But good Lord, this woman brings it out of her. “Is _staring_ another crime?”

“No, it’s just rude. _You’re_ rude. You think I don’t get to include that?” The tabby’s eyes crack open, disturbed from its nap. Peridot scowls and strokes its ears irritably. “ _Ugh._ Stare away! Not like it means anything to you.”

She’s correct. Pearl can glean nothing from the marks on the page. She could scrape more meaning from animal tracks after a hard rain.

… though Pearl _does_ recognize color. One pile of sheets appears topped with a small golden mark in its corner; the other topped with red. But there’s not much time to look closer, because Peridot is organizing the stacks, and reaching for twine.

“We’re finished?” Pearl’s chest loosens. Relief. “Then I’ll be leaving.” It feels as though it’s affected her mind, standing here in the sunlight underground. Time must pass strangely here. How awful, to be a scribe.

“... not yet.” Peridot hesitates. For the first time she looks… anxious.

Pearl doesn’t like that. Peridot’s pen is set aside, and the papers are bound. “We certainly _look_ finished.”

“I’m meant to…” Peridot fairly cringes from her seat, down at the desktop. One hand comes to the side of her brow in a shield. “... confirm your womanhood.”

Silence. In a far corner, one of the cats undercalculates: it leaps from a shelf to a desk, scattering a loose stack of pages.

Neither Pearl nor Peridot react.

Pearl breaks the silence first. She clears her throat; she straightens. “... well. We are not doing that.”

“It’s not _my_ call!” Peridot yelps. The tabby _thumps_ to the floor, disgruntled. It must want to retreat to some quieter nook. “After one big mixup they want _certainty--_ it’s your own fault!”

Pearl doesn’t need to ask whom.

She stands tall regardless. Her voice holds steady. “We’re not, because it’s unnecessary.” It’s a warning. Then, for posterity: “Lady Quartz can confirm.”

Not that Pearl tries to think about that.

Peridot grimaces, and mumbles, “ _That’s_ for sure...” before she scrubs a hand down her face. The noise she makes into her palm isn’t a _scream_ , but it’s… concerning. When she pulls her hand away again, there’s smears of ink on her cheeks. “Just… get out of here before I change my mind.”

Pearl does. Gladly.

* * *

The smith is next, and last.

Peridot reluctantly granted befuddled directions to the Quartz forge on the way out (“It’s new,” she covers, “you can’t expect me to remember everything”).

Wasn’t that the point of writing it all down?

Even then. Pearl finds herself at odds in her attempt to navigate. The streets wind. There’s blind corners at each turn, and tight secluded alleys, perfect for ambush. More than once her hand edges to her empty hip, and Pearl chides herself.

She should have asked for _something._ A dagger, even. A brooch is no substitute for an actual weapon. It digs, there near her breastbone, angled like a bite, and catches the eye of passersby. No one makes a grab for it. Not yet.

It’s the looming threat of losing the brooch to some sly hand -- or several armed ones -- that drives Pearl to pause before two men, dressed to build, sharing a drink in front of some half-done structure. Sweat cakes their clothing from the work. The bearded one has the flask halfway to his lips, listening intently as the watery-eyed one wades deep into some fevered retelling, when Pearl rushes, “I’m looking for the smith.”

They freeze perfectly. As one, the men look to the brooch. They exchange glances before they thaw. The bearded man slowly refastens the lid of the flask, and takes in Pearl’s at an unfriendly tilt. “What for?”

The other man stops him with a hand to the shoulder. Something unspoken passes between them before the bearded man pockets his flask and goes quiet.

The watery-eyed man gestures once he has Pearl’s attention. “There’s a fork, just down this way.” He’s missing half his ring finger, right at the knuckle. “Take the left. Go ‘til you see the fenced-in yard. Smith’s right next.”

Pearl manages a nod as she continues on. She doesn’t linger. But she still manages to hear low words pass between the two of them as she turns the corner.

Why? Why is it so much simpler to speak when her nerves are grated on?

The man’s directions lead Pearl correctly. She finds the yard, which looks like it might have housed goats at one point. No grass grows. Worn down only to bald earth. It sits empty now, except for some scrap metal on the border with the forge. She follows the fence (could use some mending) for… where she should knock, or...

“Heard I had a visitor.” Pearl jumps: it’s a woman’s voice. “But you’re _not_ who I was expecting.”

The smith is leaned against the railing around the forge, braced upon her elbows. She is enormous: could fill most doorways with ease, by Pearl’s eye, perhaps even hunched as she is. Even unsmiling, her expression gives off a warmth. The hair that lay just past her shoulders is styled in intricate locs, a few of which tumble behind her back as her posture shifts. She straightens, clearing her throat, and taps out the ash from her pipe with surprising delicacy.

“She send you to pick up the shoes? ‘Cause they aren’t finished y...” The smith sees the crest as Pearl steps nearer. Her expression shifts, somehow. Still handsome; no longer warm. “... nah. I don’t think horseshoes will do it for you at all, huh?”

A pause pulls between them. Then she smiles. It feels like the kind that should ease, but it doesn’t reach the smith’s eyes. “Come on, then.” She waves a hand to reel Pearl in. “Let’s get a look at you.”

Pearl steps no further.

The hand lowers, slowly. The smith leans, again. And goes back to tapping the bowl of her pipe. “... certainly hold yourself like military.”

“I’m here for armor,” Pearl says.

The smith laughs. It’s a rich, sturdy sound. But Pearl can hear the suspicion, and see it, too, for all that her bearing is aimed at friendly. “Act like one, too. Yeah, alright. Follow me.”

Pearl has been in the weapons forges twice, to assist with materials. But those were for swords and spears and shields only -- designed to churn out as much serviceable steel as quickly as possible. There was never a fitting for standard leather plate. It was never difficult to adjust… but then, it never lasted long, either. Pearl’s uncertain what to expect.

“Make yourself at home.” The smith sweeps a bare arm, drily around the forge, and bends to shift a box aside. The simple motion coils the muscle of her shoulder. Only this close, Pearl sees her arms are braced with intricate tattoos. “Let me grab my measure.”

Pearl says nothing. It smells much like the weapons forge: woodsmoke, coalsmoke, metal, pitch. Not unpleasant. But hardly surprising. She lets her eyes wander as the smith rummages in a cupboard, and feels her heart leap at the sight of a shortsword sitting idle on the anvil. The smith had been in the middle of testing balance, maybe. A few longswords, too, sit ready for the same… a lovely, hawkish rapier along the wall --

“‘The Knight of Roses.’” The smith returns with a roll of measure, and an oil stick for writing numbers. They look laughably small in her hands. “It’s a pretty sharp title.”

Does word really get around so quickly? Pearl tries not to pinch her face. Or perhaps it’s a set title, always the same? But Rose Quartz has never named one before...

“I haven’t made armor for a knight in awhile.” She sets her materials except for the measure on a low table. Then she twirls a finger at Pearl: _Turn around._ “Arms out, please. Real level-like.”

… Pearl does so. Reluctantly. Immediately, the hairs at the back of her neck stiffen in protest. Strangers are _not_ to be left unattended. Pearl grits her teeth. Sooner begun, sooner done.

She hears the rustle of the measure as the smith pulls it long -- and starts the measurement from Pearl’s fingertips.

“Lady Rose isn’t much for knights,” she says. The measure snickers as she shifts it. “You must be something special.”

It occurs to Pearl the smith is attempting conversation. Ah -- it’s the directions all over again. So much simpler to speak when someone irritates --

“How’d you come to her attention?”

… or perhaps she’s simply hunting information. That _does_ annoy. But Pearl instead chews the lining of her cheek, hidden from view.

“... suppose she could answer just as well.” There’s a scratching sound for a moment. The oil stick, writing numbers. It’s admittedly a more soothing sound than the rat-scratching of the scrivener’s pen.

The smith sighs thoughtfully; Pearl can feel her take a step back. Perhaps rethinking her approach?

The measuring tape comes up again. This time across the top of Pearl’s back. The slightest pressure rests on the apex of her shoulders as the smith measures.

“I’m not much for rumors,” she mumbles around the pen in her mouth, “but word has it she scooped you out of the tent and saved you from a forgery charge.” A pause. “And the chopping block, I guess.”

That should be obvious. Only men can enlist. Pearl feels the grimace as it comes, and allows it. So long as her back is turned.

The measure rustles. “Wonder how that went over with the big sisters?”

Lord, let this go quicker than the records.

“Wonder if she would’ve pardoned you, anyway?” Another step back. The oil pen scrawls. She hums, thinking, and drops her voice. When she steps close again, Pearl must fend off a shiver. “She’s got an eye for the grateful types.”

What did _that_ mean? But still Pearl says nothing. Silence seems safest.

The smith goes quiet for a moment. She moves to measure from the other side of Pearl’s body, taking in a new angle. “... yeesh. Who’s been using you as a pincushion?”

Patience tested, Pearl grunts. “Lots of dead men.”

The smith splutters. Then _guffaws_ \-- _this_ is how her laugh sounds -- and edges on her toes, as though she’s tempted to steal a peek around Pearl’s shoulder to her face. “I _knew_ you had a tongue in there somewhere! That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The fire from the forge must be getting to Pearl. She feels heat around her neck.

She chuckles one more time. “Gotcha. No pushing my luck… I’m trying to get flat to this shoulder, though, and these sleeves are a bit tricky. on you. Help me out?”

Pearl obliges. One-armed, she drags the offending sleeve up and out of the way, and waits for the measure.

… but even moments later, no rasp or rustle arrives.

“Hey, now.” The smith’s voice has shifted back to the careful tone -- the same from outside, by the railing. “This one’s still juicy.”

Pearl blinks. _The shoulder._ Ah. “It’s fine,” she says, as quickly as she can without mumbling. It hardly even hurts.

“It’s _not_ fine.” The firelight on the wall shifts as the smith takes _several_ steps back. Other items on the table clatter as she deposits the measure and oil stick. When Pearl half-turns to look, the smith’s face is set. “I can’t fit you right with an injury like that.”

Urgency jabs right under her ribs. Pearl needs to be fitted _today._ “It’s not painful,” she says, loud, and more firmly. “Please continue.”

“You’re not hearing me.” The smith shakes her head. She ambles past Pearl to the anvil. “Your range of motion will be off when I measure your reach. That means a mismeasure. And _one_ mismeasure means _only_ mismeasures.” Her expression gives off as much warmth as the anvil. She picks up the shortsword and reaches underneath for a tool -- perhaps a hammer. “Come back when you’re _all_ healed.”

Far, far more powerful than words: the _act_ of moving on to the next task serves to dismiss Pearl in a manner both impersonal and utterly complete. She can only stammer. “But what… what do I tell her?”

The smith thinks a moment. Then shrugs. “Whatever you like.” The shortsword comes up to her eye. When it tilts just right, she stares down the edge towards Pearl. “Seems to be working for you so far.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (dusts hands off) man, sure am glad we talked extensively about that one government type building to get it out of the way, good thing it’ll never come up again!! 
> 
> I'm operating under the idea that a person can spend years replicating writing, but if they never _hear_ any of it or otherwise connect meaning to the writing (in the case of the scribes) then it can’t actually teach them to read… so I’m rolling on with that assumption for the purposes of the fic, BUT if there’s any research that proves otherwise, please let me know! Reading acquisition is really interesting 
> 
> Peridot will not feature prominently in this AU but she was just too perfect to not fill this role... (she might be back way later for like... a sec). But boooooooiiiii if you ain’t a fan of Bismuth, I got bad news…………...
> 
> Next time: Pearl winds up in hot water.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suckers can have a _little_ anachronism.... as a treat (im suckers)
> 
> i swear we're coming up on actual action soon
> 
> BIG THANKS to [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) and [ and Florentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentine/pseuds/Florentine) for betaing!

Only two tasks, and Pearl has failed half. 

The return from the forge weighs on her, as though Pearl’s saddled with its anvil. At least the stares are easier to ignore. She watches the earth before her, and then the flagstones, and then only her boots, piecing together some manner of excuse. When’s the last she pieced together _anything_? There was never any need. In the field, no task given Pearl was relinquished until finished, or called off by a superior. She pursued and pursued and repeated and redug and redid or returned in the mud or the rain or the ice until it came about. It’s simply what was done. 

Nothing will ever be so straightforward again. The fact tightens her teeth together. Pearl would drag a hundred rivers a hundred times for supplies lost in a ford, so long as it meant no other conversations like the smith’s.

The stones smooth before the entrance to the palace. It occurs to Pearl she has no idea where to meet Lady Quartz. Or if she is meant to find her, or --

“Hello again!” 

No Lady Quartz. Instead, “Philippa.” Pearl’s chin feels lighter. 

The young woman sits on the far side of the steps leading to the entrance, arms around her knees and a stack of clothing in her lap. Her dress is different today. She takes Pearl in at a glance, up and down. “You’re looking much better.”

“Thank you.” Pearl’s words get away from her: “Are you waiting for me?”

Philippa looks pleased with the question. Lucky. “Nicely guessed!” Her back straightens a bit. “Lady Rose asked me to find you whenever you made it back. Did you get everything you need?”

“I… half of it.” Her chin lowers again as she looks to the flagstones. “The smith wouldn’t measure me for armor.”

“Oh, no, why not?” 

“... my shoulder.”

“Ooooh, ooh-ooh, she said to look out for that...” Philippa’s hand goes to her chin as she takes to her feet -- with a pitying, but thoughtful look. “So then we… hmmm.”

She must mean Lady Quartz. An odd wrinkle itches the corner of Pearl’s mouth. “Do you know where she is?” Best to lean into it. Just like penalty rounds, or short shrift on patrol duty.

“She’s busy, but told me to meet you. Come on --” For a moment it seems she’ll reach down for Pearl's hand -- but she thinks better, and it turns into a wave. “This way, please.”

Pearl follows her up the steps, and over the short bridge leading to the entrance. She takes in the guards’ boots (clean, not a speck of mud on them) before stealing a glimpse of their faces; they hardly spare her a glance this time. Small comforts. 

She moves faster than the Lady. Phillippa leads through corridors _far_ more sensible than Records. All the while, she gives running commentary on different sections of the palace -- “ _very_ drafty in the winter so you won’t get much help if you need it there, but summer’s soon -- it’s a nice spot if you want a quiet moment --”

Pearl will need to learn the layout as quickly as possible. And the lower town, too, come to think. 

Philippa finally comes to a stop and unlatches a door in the middle of the hall. She pushes it wide, smiling, and sweeps an arm in invitation: most of the room is taken up by a rounded wooden tub, along with a beaten bronze washing basin, stands, shelves with a riffraff of boxes and corked things. Jutting from the wall, some manner of pipes. Thin windows top the wall, just enough to let in light.

“... a bath?”

Philippa hums. She’s already deposited the stack of clothing (oh, those are for _Pearl_ ) and makes for the pipes over the tub. “Lady Rose said you might need my help. And she was _right._ ” 

Pearl feels her lips twist. No doubt some smug looks from the Lady lie in her future. 

Philippa already steps to set up what’s needed: she brings one of the little wicker stands from the far end of the room near the tub, and a seat for herself. When she pulls the drawer open, Pearl can see the glint of various bottles and satchels.

“What are those?” She’s not keen to try any more of the Lady’s creations. 

“Just… soaps and things. They’ll help.” Philippa makes a half-valiant attempt to conceal a… a _look_. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

Yes. Well. 

“Right!” The seat creaks as she rocks to her feet. “Let’s get you undressed, then.” 

She’s so plain about it that Pearl fails to react at first. “P… pardon?”

“Your clothes.” Philippa flips her hands out, almost a ‘shoo’; she wants Pearl to raise her arms. “You can’t very well bathe _in_ them. Here, let me --”

Pearl side-steps behind the bronze basin: it suddenly sits between the two of them. “I-I can bathe myself.” 

Philippa blinks; she makes a pitying little sound that doesn’t quite leave her mouth, and closes in again. “You’re very proud, I know. But if you aren’t ready for armor, then you aren’t ready for a bath on your own. Undressing, _re_ dressing, _reaching --_ ” Philippa does so herself, seeking out the hem of Pearl’s shirt -- “It’s really no trouble! Here, I can just --”

“It’s not necessary,” Pearl grunts. She pulls back three paces as heat scratches up her neck. “I will be fine.” She avoids Philippa’s eye. She knows the kind of confusion she’ll see there and, frankly, Pearl has had her fill of humiliation for the day. 

“But _why_ would you…”

There isn’t much space to continue dodging -- but if Pearl can keep steady on a stalemate, surely Philippa will get frustrated and leave. She already sounds near. She’ll simply throw her hands up, and --

“Are you _shy?_ ” Her tone splits like overripe fruit: all sticky, amused disbelief. Her mouth even hangs open a sliver. She steps closer again but with arms crossed. The one eye squints at Pearl, head cocked, held up from below by a tickling smirk.

“I’m -- !” Pearl coughs. The steam must be getting to her. “I’m… used to hiding.” It’s true: always very first or very last to bathe. 

Philippa’s tone is all too knowing. “I see.” 

Yes. That’s exactly the problem. 

Pearl clears her throat again but stands taller, and she fixes her chin. Resolute. Let her have at least _this,_ for God’s sake.

“Well… strip by yourself if you _must._ ” Philippa mimes a flowery curtsy. The funny little smirk hasn’t left. “And wait in the tub -- but don’t start cleaning! I’m here to help you.”

Pearl takes entirely too long to answer. Philippa’s nearly out the door when she manages, “Uh, yes.” Then, “Thank you.”

Philippa smiles. It’s a new smile; Pearl can’t quite place its meaning. Then the door closes.

Good. Yes. Pearl, left to her devices. That’s when it’s best. 

As the tub continues to fill, she makes short work of herself. She _can_ strip on her own, if gingerly. Boots are easy to lever off and set aside. She gets the breeches off quickly enough, too, and is careful with the shirt. A little extra shimmying and a cautious hold on the opposite sleeve allows her to pull it free without agitating her shoulder. She hesitates; then she bends to scoop the articles off the floor, and mostly-folds them to stack on one of the empty shelves. It seems polite.

How full is the tub meant to be? Too late to get Philippa’s insight. Pearl reaches to pull the spigot closed once the water’s reached a touch past halfway. The water is oddly cloudy… but Pearl can smell no earth, no mud or filth. Hm. 

… oh, she’ll indulge her curiosity, no one can _see…_ she gives the spigot a brief inspection. Perhaps the water is treated, somehow. Perfumed or enriched, or… she can’t recognize the scent. Something to ask later, maybe.

Pearl eyes the tub. She’s never bathed in hot water. Lukewarm when lucky, on hot mornings, or summer evenings after a blistering day. She tries to slip in too quickly and hoists her leg free again with a wince. _Too_ hot. Carefully, then. Pearl eases her ankle into the water, and waits. The skin along her calf can feel the draft as steam passes, feathering up along her thigh. Odd feeling. But not unpleasant. Pearl breathes; she tenderly levers the rest of her leg into the scraping-hot water, and then the other, until she can slowly lower herself whole.

“Oh.” It comes as a whisper. The water level passes to her waist, her ribs. Pearl sinks in further with a small moan. Hot, yes, nearly too hot... but it becomes more bearable by the moment. Tight-knit muscles deep in her back and hips -- muscles that have forgotten how to relax -- begin to soften. They _loosen._ Oh, Lord. She’s warm in places that forgot _how_ to be. Pearl sinks fully into the tub with another strange, appreciative sound, and lets the water lap against her collarbone. The lip of the tub allows her to brace the back of her head, and the wafting steam encourages her eyes to drift closed; she lets them. Yes.

When Philippa enters, she’s pink. “Is it nice?”

“Yes.” Pearl feels nearly sleepy. It’s... it’s quite nice.

"Sounded like it," she giggles.

Of course she listened at the door. Of course she did. That’s how it works here, isn’t it? Nothing happens privately. Pearl tries not to huff as Philippa moves to take a seat behind her: glass clicks as the young woman adjusts the bottles and containers by the tub. The hair along Pearl’s neck wants to rise, wants to face the sound. Pearl wets her lips instead. Tries to relax, again. “... I’ve never used hot water.” Not like _this._

Philippa makes an interested sound. “Not enough to go around for soldiers?” But she seems unsurprised. “Well, make sure you’re careful getting out. It makes your blood funny.”

“Funny?” 

“Mmhm… some people get up too fast and faint. _You’d_ better not, because if you fall and crack your head into fifty pieces and end up in bed for another week, Lady Rose will never forgive me.”

Pearl’s mouth twitches at the corner. “I will do my best.”

“That better be a knightly promise!”

“You have my soberest word.”

Philippa makes some coarse sound of approval, and tests the water’s heat. “I’m going to wet your hair first. Can you dip under? I can use a bowl, but it's messier and takes a little longer…”

Pearl can. If awkwardly. On an exhale, she folds her knees to slip underneath -- too quickly. The beautiful sensation of hot water along the root of her neck and scalp shocks her, and she presses up again, gasping. 

“Please don’t _drown,_ either.” Philippa’s chide is all cheer as Pearl spits out water. “And you wanted to do this alone…”

She has a precious few moments to compose herself as Philippa selects one of the bottles. There’s a small pop, and then cork against glass -- and then the soap. Pearl can’t see it, but she can smell it. Much sweeter. Most in the field was saved for clothing, but Pearl could sneak a bit every so often. Likely this kind won’t leave skin raw in places.

She is unprepared for the strange lance of static through her back when Philippa’s fingers make their way to lather. A shudder starts in the back of her neck and twists, and Pearl’s leg kicks out with a splash and Philippa’s hands whip away.

“Oh! Goodness --” She angles herself to see Pearl’s face. “Did that hurt?”

Pearl catches her breath. Her head shakes. “No, just… it surprised me.” Like a barked shin, or a frogged elbow, but painless. The nerves just... shuffle. “More slowly?” Perhaps that would help.

Philippa does; she tries a different motion. More pressure, with more care. The touch still wrings the skin of her neck and down her back with dappling little shivers, but she can bear it. They aren’t _unpleasant…_ they certainly aren’t painful. Pearl simply has never felt a hand beside her own this way. Yes. That’s sensible. Philippa’s hands are smaller, but not much softer than Pearl’s own. Both hardened with years of work. They massage the soap into a lather, and knead the froth along her scalp, and the base of her skull, and rework the hair in swirls to cover it all... and the calluses… Pearl can feel calluses. They rasp like flint. Like sugarcubes. A languid halo of warmth spreads from the touch: petal-shaped pangs along the roof of her mouth, her cheeks; along the thin flesh behind her ears, tender as cherryskin. 

“... think about it...” The voice is distant and muggy. “... Pearl? Did you hear me?"

Pearl blinks twice. “Yes?” She’s sunken a little lower in the tub. Her head pounds. Breathless, nearly. Like she’s climbed some great hill. She swallows. “I... yes.”

Philippa puffs air through her nose. “You're so silly.” But it’s kind.

She prompts Pearl to dip underwater (more slowly this time), and ruffles her hair to get the last of the soap cleared. When she lets her back up, Pearl brushes stray hair from her eyes and begins to reach for the waiting towel -- only to be stopped by Philippa’s hand on her good shoulder.

Pearl cranes her neck. “Are we not finished?”

“I’m not even done with your _hair."_ Philippa nudges her good shoulder downward. “Sit, please.”

“But I --”

“ _Sit!”_ Pearl sinks back with a slosh. _“_ Thank you!”

Pearl stammers. “But we’ve already washed it?” 

“ _T_ _hat_ was just to get rid of the dirt.” From the corner of Pearl’s eye, she sees Philippa pouring some other paste into her hand. “ _This_ one makes your hair softer and stronger… and we haven't even started the rest of you.”

It’s thick, and colder, and fails to lather. Pearl tries to relax into it. The smell of oil is much stronger, but Philippa works quickly.

“We have to leave it in awhile. _Now..._ ” She clears her throat, starchy. “Sit up taller, if you please.”

Pearl takes a breath. Then pushes with her heels, until her back slides carefully up the wall of the tub. The skin along her collar and shoulders doesn’t cool as she expects. They hold the warmth, at least for a moment. But she can feel Philippa pause as the skin shows. 

“... I see why they turned you away.” It’s not unkind. She reaches with the cloth to dip into the water, and scrubs gingerly around the injured shoulder. “How did you hide from the healers for so long? Especially with some of these…”

“One of them was very near-sighted.” An understatement. He would sometimes confuse Pearl’s leg as an arm. But he could patch up any leaks with little issue. “I’d go to him if I was worried.”

“Too bad there’s no near-sighed smiths, huh?” She giggles quietly. The water swirls as she dips the cloth again. “Who did you go to, anyway?”

… er. Oh. Pearl never got the woman’s name.

“Was it Rafa? He’s a _bit_ picky to begin with… I wouldn’t take it personally...”

“No, she…” Hm. “She was... very big?”

Philippa squeaks.

“ _Bismuth!_ Oh! Of course you went to her, I always forget she’s Lady Rose’s, now! Isn’t she nice? She’s so funny. I’m sure she’ll get you fixed up once she can --”

“You know her?”

She can feel Philippa’s smile at the back of her neck. “Oh, yes. I’m sure everyone does. She’s a bit overworked… now she’s the only Quartz smith, you know?” Her voice goes warm as the bath. “But she’s always been very kind.” A laugh, too. “And she’s so _funny!_ She has this prank she likes to play, sometimes, where she --”

Pearl presses down on the odd pressure in her chest. A mixture of irritation and… something else. She waits for a pause in the gushing before she mutters, “What kind of a name is Bismuth?”

Philippa titters. “She says it just stuck, one day. It's ‘smith’ mixed up with her given name.” The pout is easy to hear in her voice. “She still won’t tell me what that is, though…”

Hm. “Whose was she before?”

She cools instantly. “... Blue’s. I think.” Then, hastily, “I can’t remember.” 

The lie is louder than the pout. But Pearl doesn’t corner her. Much as Pearl would like to ask more, it's not something Philippa wishes to discuss.

Silence; just the sounds of the water and the scrub against Pearl’s skin. Philippa adds, almost apologetic, “She’s _so_ funny.”

Philippa deigns to relinquish some of the washing command to Pearl, who works as best she can one-armed. And, truthfully, distracted; the skin left behind feels too-soft, and strange, like she’s been scoured down to a new layer. She takes pains not to overreach, wary of testing Philippa’s already wearing patience. And tries to stay submerged as the both of them work, but... isn’t entirely successful. The water level falls below her breastbone as she bends to reach her ankles, and she’s certain Philippa gets an eyeful when she shifts to the side of the tub.

Philippa titters, shimmery. It jars Pearl from her grim disregard. “I think Lady Rose would have asked me to help even if she wasn’t busy. Imagine the scandal.”

… she’s missing something. Pearl pauses, mid-scrub. “Because she’s a noble?”

Her hands freeze against Pearl's back. Whatever’s missing must be... sizable. 

“Because… you know… Lady Rose…” Philippa pops her lips near-silently. Pearl can hear her fidget with the sponge. “Ummm… hm.” She might tap her chin. “Lady _Rose_ …”

“Philippa.” Pearl cranes to find her. “Please.” 

“... she has a reputation. For being, um…” She grins uneasily. “Amorous?” 

… Oh. 

“Free-spirited? Open-minded? One of the visiting nobles said she has an -- a -- _how_ did she say it --”

All the comments.

_Oh._

“-- ah, a ‘willful misinterpretation of propriety’ --’”

Pearl’s head pounds. It has nothing to do with ‘funny blood.’ “I... I see.”

“Not as much as she _did_ but there’s some scrutiny. Why do you think she had so many rooms built?” Philippa puffs air around a lopsided smile. She’s advanced from shared embarrassment to a kind of indulgent pity. “... oh, my. Did you know the back of your neck blushes?”

“I-I’ve only seen the one…” How many could she really have? 

“I would think soldiers love gossiping about that kind of thing," she says, insinuation ringing.

“Soldiers gossip about many things,” Pearl mumbles. They also say that Blue Diamond cries a never-ending stream of tears, and Yellow Diamond shoots lightning from her fingertips. That White Diamond sits on a throne of skeletons. One can hardly take any of it seriously. 

“She isn’t a direct heir, so it’s ‘not as though it matters _’…_ uh, her words, not mine,” she hurries to add. “But lately she’s given it a rest! Trying to… hm, improve her image.”

Her image. Pearl frowns. “Like finally naming a personal guard.”

Philippa hums. “Lift, please.” 

Pearl dares to hope for elaboration, but Philippa apparently loses interest in the topic.

So, then... she gets away with more. Pearl thinks back to that morning, the Diamonds’ frustration. Clearly this is not a new pattern for Lady Quartz. Doing as she pleases. Hm. Pearl’s eyes drift closed, pinched in the middle. Certainly the Lady’s habit has served _Pearl_ well. But perhaps the cost of tying her life to the Lady’s is higher than first thought.

The attention slows; the room quiets. Pearl’s eyes open. “Philippa?” She can feel her in thought. 

“Well… it’s only... people are _already_ …” She coughs. “Has Lady Rose…”

“... no! What? _No.”_ Pearl’s voice clips in the middle, unused to being raised.

“She hasn’t?”

Pearl hunches. Her knees draw in, unbidden. “I’m… I’m not a man.”

“Oh, she’s _not_ choosy, as that goes --” 

Her stomach lurches. “She… I... _no._ ” 

“Oh. Well! That’s... good?” 

Pearl sinks an inch deeper into the water.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. You’re just… you’re _so_ … um… anyway.” She resettles in her seat and snickers, once. Relenting. A small mercy. “You’ll feel a lot better when you’re clean. I always do.”

She rallies Pearl into sitting up enough that they can rinse her hair again. Once it’s cleaned to Philippa’s satisfaction, she claps her hands together. “Well! Finished…” She sighs, accomplished. “Although... dressing will be trickier.”

“I can do it.” Pearl reaches for the towel once again -- but it’s snatched out of reach.

Philippa holds it behind her back, jaw set like a sinkful of dishes. “No.”

“... no?”

“No.” Her lips purse. “Lady Rose trusted me to make certain you don’t hurt yourself worse, and I think you need help. Don’t you want your fitting done?”

Yes. Pearl does. 

“... I can not look, if you really want.” Philippa’s voice softens. She doesn’t flinch, or shy away when Pearl meets her gaze. Her sighted eye searches, hazel, gentle. “But I need to help you.”

She at least spares Pearl’s pride enough to let her step out on her own. But she was right -- some lightheadedness results. They find a way: Pearl can brace her hip against the lip of the tub in such a way they can set about drying, and redressing. 

She’s been difficult every step of the way. Her head bows as Philippa rubs her hair dry with another towel. “I’m sorry.”

“What for -- being stubborn?” But her voice is warm. When Pearl peeks, Philippa’s trimmed with a grin. “Don’t worry. You’re no worse than the horses.”

* * *

Philippa, regrettably, has other chores to tend to before the end of the day. She winces and smiles as she abandons Pearl (“-- said to leave you here if she didn’t find us first --”) in the very same damned chamber that’s swallowed up so many days. But Pearl smiles tightly, and thanks her again before the door clicks closed. 

Very well. 

Pearl faces the room again. The bed’s since been made. Pale gold sheets, now. Earlier detritus has been cleared from the table, the stands. Either Philippa took it upon herself to tidy, or this room gets regular treatment from staff when not harboring fugitives. 

_Many chambers._ How many? Are there others, like her, patching up away from the law? Likely not, Pearl thinks. But imagine.

Her nostrils flare around a sigh. Would rather not sit. “‘Tryst closets.’”

She’s just begun to cross to the window to look down on the grounds when the door buckles open, and there she is: dusty pink high in her cheeks, and a wisp of hair stuck to her brow. “No armor fitted?” she asks, a bit breathless.

Philippa must have crossed her in the halls. Pearl fumbles. “I… I’m afraid not --” but Lady Quartz is already withdrawing, back into the hall, scooping the air with one hand. “Come on! She’s still working, I’m sure.”

Pearl doesn’t need telling twice. She follows. 

Already she can recognize when to turn to exit again (straight through the fork, a left at the portrait of the drowned woman) but the Lady’s gown catches Pearl’s eye: frayed at the bottom edge, and stippled with dark stains. It’s only once they near the smith’s she has the nerve to ask.

“My Lady?”

“Yes?” She fails to turn, still striding. The lower town crowd parts for her, easy as curtains, and the Lady waves idly to calls for her health. “Quickly, please.”

Nerve leaves her at that. Lady Quartz seems not to notice. She turns onto a thoroughfare (smiling and waving again) and sighs, “Oh _good_ , she’s still about.”

The smith -- _Bismuth_ \-- is leaned against the railing again. Her sleeves have been rolled high past her elbows. The front of her shirt is dolloped dark with sweat, cooling, the leather apron likely cast aside somewhere as she takes respite, now deep in discussion with the man who gave Pearl directions. They both seem utterly at ease. Bismuth nods somberly at something the man says… then replies with a crooked grin. The man dissolves into raspy laughter.

She catches the two of them from the corner of her eye and straightens. Her face blanks. The man says something (still _just_ out of Pearl's earshot), but Bismuth shakes her head, sharp, twice. He shuffles away, but not before giving Pearl a wary glance.

“Milady.” Bismuth cuts a little bow, hand and chin only. To Pearl, “Your good knightself.”

“Hello Bismuth.” And the Lady leaves her pleasantries there. “You can’t make something work for Pearl?”

Bismuth's eyes flash oddly. But they don’t waver from the Lady’s. “Month is _not_ enough time, I’m afraid.” The words come slowly. “Not nearly.”

“Could anything be done?”

“Would if I could.” 

How flip. _Unreasonably_ so. Pearl feels herself bristle as she takes a step closer. “You are addressing a _Lady._ ”

Bismuth’s eyes are a deep, gruff brown. When she turns them on Pearl it’s like being buffeted against a walnut trunk. “Yeah, well, _time’s_ lord master of us all, ain’t he.” 

Pearl meets the glare. She wishes she had _something_ on her waist.

Lady Quartz seems oblivious of the lock. “I understand she can’t be fit properly. But perhaps you could adjust an existing set in the meantime?” She adds, velvety earnest: “I can have one sent from the armory tomorrow.”

Bismuth holds the glower a moment longer before looking back to the Lady. Her nose crinkles at the side, and she grumbles at the ground, “It’d fit terribly.” When she fixes upon Pearl again, it’s impartial: simply a woman, considering her craft, laying out the weak spots in her mind’s eye. “If it doesn’t pinch anywhere, it’ll have gaps. And it could come apart if it gets hit just right.”

“Just in the meantime, until she can get her set,” Lady Quartz presses. Simply; polite, but straightforward. So different from the morning. “There are no battlefields in her future. And if so, I imagine we’d have much larger worries.”

Bismuth crosses her tattooed arms over herself, and props a hip against the railing. Bold lines form along the bone of each forearm, where the muscle and softer flesh come together. “I’m _professionally_ opposed…” She dredges deep for a sigh; the shirt resettles, and shows where sweat is still jewelled along her chest. “... but it’s doable. _If,”_ one hand rises, “I had someone to help with some of the lifting and drudgework down here. I can craft, and I can lift, but a little much to do both all the time.”

“I’ll have some help sent to you.” Lady Quartz’s relief is palpable. “Thank you, Bismuth.”

“Pleasure as ever.” Her chin and hand cut another little bow. A little smile pulls at her lips as she glances at Pearl, and... winks? Trick of the light.

Lady Quartz turns to hurry back, but Pearl clears her throat. “I need a sword as well.” No point in mincing about it.

“Oh, I forgot the sword,” the Lady titters.

Bismuth’s eyebrow holds high. “Those take time too, you know.” 

“Any sword will do.” She resists looking through, to those waiting on the walls. “You seem to have several prepared.”

“Ha. Not picky, huh?” 

“I can pay the armor in advance,” the Lady says, “but I’ll need to send you payment for the sword.”

“That’s fine.” Bismuth nods, but Lady Quartz has already stepped outside. A father and daughter bow deeply at the waist as she gives a little shout of delight, and fords a mud puddle to admire their cartload of tulips.

Pearl is not alone in watching. Both she and Bismuth look back to one another at the same time.

Bismuth breaks the pause. “A sword and no armor, huh?”

“It’s more than I have now.”

Bismuth stares her down a moment more before she steps back, and unfurls her arm, sweeping to the forge at large. The grandiosity is gently mocking. “Sure. Pick of the litter.” 

Pearl does. The smoke is fresher, now -- no doubt they’ve interrupted some task in need of coal and a hammer. She resists a longing look at the rapier… it’s beautiful, yes, but a longsword is familiar. Sturdy. Pearl scans them each, lined up in a zag like green recruits and selects the endmost. She can feel the smith’s eyes at her back as she hefts it. Oh; the weight is splendid. Perhaps she’s simply been starved of one so long but Pearl savors, now. Balance is good. Decent grip. She tests the flexibility… more rigid than she’s accustomed. No matter. No permission asked, either, when she selects one of the sheaths. Yes. A good fit. She would love a dagger, too, in any fashion... but prioritizes. 

“Are these belts spoken for?” Some are approaching smoke-stained. “Seems they’ve sat awhile.”

Bismuth snorts. She sounds amused. “Help yourself.” 

But Pearl’s already selected -- after a close inspection for rust along the buckles. Still stiff. Very well, Pearl can break it in. 

“... though the _best_ way to help yourself is to keep that shoulder in one piece. Get me? I don’t want to hear about it if you take a bad swing and open yourself up again, and have to wait even _longer_ for y…” She trails off as she watches Pearl adjust the sword on her right hip. Both eyebrows yank high. “... don’t imagine there’s many southpaws at court.”

“Yes, I’m certain that will be the strangest thing about me,” Pearl says, dry. It surprises a laugh out of Bismuth.

“Ha! You’re not wrong.” Her voice takes on a glow again. She watches, grinning quietly, as Pearl wrestles with too much slack. “... not the best fit on that one. Here -- off with it.”

Pearl does. Eventually. Bismuth’s hand swallows it up before she withdraws to the corner to a set of drawers, crouching to pull one open: leather scraps, bottles of buttons, spools of twine, odds and ends. Bismuth squints at the belt in hand a moment, and returns to rummaging. “Oh, and hey. Piece of friendly advice? Be a little sneakier.”

That catches her at the throat. Pearl swallows it down. “... about what, precisely?”

“Staring. You know.” Her chin hints a glance over her shoulder. “Like you’re doing now.”

Er… oh. A wave of heat comes that has nothing to do with the hearth.

Things knock and rustle as Bismuth continues. “I’m sure you got a lot to stare at nowadays. But you’re not brushing elbows with tanners and fieldhands anymore. Noble folks are _used_ to nosy.” Her head jerks towards the far wall -- where Lady Quartz might be. “And they don’t much care for it when they see it.”

Pearl says nothing. For the little good it does. As Bismuth turns back with a more suitable belt, something in Pearl’s expression gives way to her thoughts -- but Bismuth only shrugs. “Just a friendly word. Take or leave it.”

She fusses with the length of leather a moment more, tugging the buckles, before at last handing it over. Bismuth watches a little too closely as Pearl situates the belt and sword on her waist herself. 

“You might take your own advice,” Pearl notes. An ounce of grumble frosts the words.

“You see any noblefolk in here?” Bismuth has an odd expression on her face: her lips are tilted, like she’s about to laugh, but there’s no real jab or dig to it. She looks, if anything, pleased. “Do Ladies’ knights say ‘thank you’?”

Hrm. Well. Pearl supposes they ought to. After making sure her tongue won’t tie, she announces, “Thank you. For the sword, and the belt. And...” She pretends to adjust the buckle. “... and, Philippa says hello.” 

The odd expression melts away. Her lips actually part, eyes wide -- before she splits into a grin far warmer than the hearth. Pearl could likely feel it from the palace. Bismuth laughs -- she _truly_ laughs. “Hey -- tell her that _thing’s_ on the shortlist!”

  
  
  
  


Pearl’s not certain what _that_ means. She puzzles over it as she follows Lady Quartz. They take an unexpected turn through the lower town, and Pearl trots to catch up, stilling the sword at her side. “Not back to the castle?... my Lady?”

“Mm, not just yet.” 

They cut along to the far side of the palace, new to Pearl. New to most, it seems -- there’s no foot traffic, and the passageway leads to a dead end. But the Lady cuts into a small alcove, and leads Pearl to a narrow set of stairs that veer sharply at the top. Pearl might protest if she seemed less sure of herself; Lady Quartz wastes no time shouldering against the homely door at the top (the frame sticks). Pearl follows her into a large, comfortably cluttered study. A single tinted window takes up much of the wall. Through it, Pearl can see the lion’s share of the lower town. Somehow it escaped her notice on the way over… 

Ah. The window is framed with a pattern like the surrounding brickwork. Hard to spot, unless the light were right.

“Just another little workspace of mine.” Lady Quartz sweeps to the turtlish writing desk and seats herself with a sigh. She puffs a bang from her cheek. “This one’s closest to the couriers, so I like to do my letter-writing here when I can. Ooh -- the door, please.”

Lady Quartz has her particulars. But perhaps Pearl’s underestimated the extent. She closes the door and stands, and waits. She’s given no other order. Lady Quartz simply makes the sound of one settling after too long on her feet. Her chin lifts, struck by a thought. “Records went well?”

“... it did, yes.”

“Good.” She nods. Her cheeks puff around a sigh. “What a day.” Then she turns, rifles through the contents of the desk, and begins to write. 

Pearl finds herself drifting from the door. The rest of the room lays like a spilled box of toys: books splay open in stacks, dog-eared in disarray; glass glints from the ribs of jars narrow and squat; preserved bones line the lips of one shelf like combs. A mosaic of jaundiced maps, charts, pictures and pages overlap on the walls like the scales of some long-neglected creature. Pearl sees one must be a list. Some items have been scratched off. She traces the lettering with her eyes. Lady Quartz’s hand -- it must be hers -- stretches across the page like loops of yarn laid over and over, soft and wide, inviting as an open palm.

Pearl cannot resist. She reaches out to touch one of pages and pulls her fingers back, darkened -- oil paint, or charcoal, or... it separates oddly when she rubs them together --

“Oh, I wouldn’t poke around in that corner.”

Pearl pulls away as though bitten. 

But Lady Quartz only continues writing. “I might have left _some_ thing out… hrm.” She looks over and squints. “I can’t say for _certain_ but I think I left some paralytic loose somewhere…” She half-stifles a giggle as Pearl hurries onto the next corner. “Don’t judge too harshly! I don’t bring others up here...”

Pearl somehow loses her appetite for inspection. She opts to watch the letter-writing instead. The Lady doesn’t sprinkle sand, like the scribes; she painstakingly balances the page atop the tumult of bottles and jars, and prays that it dries without falling to the floor. Then she begins the next.

“Where is…” A hum. “Do you happen to see… oh, good.” She leans, and plucks a bottle from the collection next to the writing desk. But after a moment she doubles back, looking dissatisfied. She deposits it once more. “Hm. _Hello_ there…”

Her writing desk, cramped as it is, has no additional space even for the small bottle. Instead she turns to Pearl. “Could you hold this, please?”

Pearl does. Lady Quartz turns back to her letter. The marks she makes are long, soothing to watch… but it’s the liquid in the glass that draws Pearl’s eye. A deep, beautiful shade of ochre, like honey thinned with wine. “What is it?”

“A very potent aphrodisiac,” (Pearl fumbles, and tries not to drop it,) “of my own design. The Sapporali newlyweds have been at it _over a year_ , now, and have yet to conceive.” The Lady pauses; her head tilts, and she tickles her chin with the end of the pen. “I suppose that means they aren’t newlyweds any longer..?” Pearl’s discomfort must be too obvious. She attracts her Lady’s attention once again. “You don’t approve?” 

“... my Lady.” Perhaps protection will mean offering a different voice, in places. Pearl clears her throat. “You don’t think they would be… offended?”

She frowns. “By what?” 

Pearl says nothing. She knows so little of neighboring nobles -- Pearl could not even _name_ them -- there’s precious little she could offer in counterpoint. 

But Lady Quartz’s eyes abruptly widen. Her lips part; she might pale, just a shade. “Oh... how embarrassing. My goodness.” She brings a hand to one cheek as though to hide. “You’re right. Completely. I cannot simply _assume.._.”

Pearl quiets her sigh of relief. 

“It could be _either_ of them. Or both.” Lady Quartz reaches, and peers at the other bottles on the shelf, twiddling the quill in distraction. “Best to add something for the bride… I have a _few_ choices for fertility --”

The clacks and tings cover Pearl’s quiet groan. It’s quite a lot of bottles. Looking now, what Pearl assumed bookshelves are actually full of more of the things. She may pale, too. “Are these all…”

The Lady chuckles, closed-mouth. “I assist with more than cold beds, sir knight.” She pulls a thinking face. “Madame knight?” 

“Of course.” Pearl should be careful how she lets gossip color her words. Even true gossip. Not all are as easygoing. “So then… what you mixed for me…” 

“Mm. Yes. I make many things.” The ticklish end of the quill taps against one such jar. “Mostly for simple injury but disease, too. Fevers and chills. Surgical aids… things to pepper over porridge when nauseous, or anxious, or incontinent, or… well. You see my meaning.”

Pearl does. She finds herself finishing the thought aloud. “You’ve found many ways to ease suffering.” 

Lady Quartz laughs. The sound is polite, pinked and chiming. “Yes! Well put. Yes. I hope to ease suffering.” She gives a wry smile, aimed down at the letter. It’s at odds with her laugh. “How lucky it’s in such generous supply.” 

Somehow, Pearl’s mistepped. Lady Quartz’s quill drifts a few moments more, and pauses. She’s only partway down the page, but nonetheless places it down again. Her fingertips tent on the desktop. They tap. Pearl realizes the ring, absent all while the Lady tended to her, has returned: silver, winding vines, fine and sure as sutures.

Past the glass of the window there’s a distant crunch of gravel. Horses, perhaps. Wheels on rubble. 

The Lady turns in her seat. Her eyes are calm and measured. “What are you thinking?”

Pearl starts. “My Lady?”

She smiles; she taps her temple. “You ask many questions, but don’t give many answers. I know talking too much _has_ been a danger... but know you may do so freely with me.”

… Pearl’s not certain how much she believes that. Even if it’s clear the Lady does. Her hand goes to her new belt. She tests the buckle, again, and shifts her eyes. “... I was thinking… that I was quite fortunate _you_ found me.” 

Little seems to surprise Lady Quartz, but this does. Pearl can see the fill of pleased warmth, even as she tries to conceal it, like watching some wilted thing come by water. Her smile widens as she turns in her seat to face Pearl fully. 

“What a kind thought. Thank you.” Pearl _likes_ this sort of smile. “Yes. I do my best. I detest bloodshed, did you know? I have the stomach for it,” she hurries to add, “so I can work in the field. But God.” The smile frails. “Every drop, in vain.”

Her gaze weighs lower. Past Pearl, aimed to the floor. “I struggle, there. On the field. And in court, when they decide on war. But I want to help. It pulls me out, time and again.” The smile warms again as she pulls her eyes back up to Pearl's. “I’m glad it pulled me to you.”

Like too bright a sunbeam, the smile turns Pearl away. She makes an odd sound when she exhales -- like the air’s forced out of her. But she recovers enough to ask, quickly, ”D-did you always mean to be a healer?” Pearl’s questions have yet to offend. 

Lady Quartz coos, thoughtful, crossing one thigh over the other. She leans her palms upon her knee like a cat that’s keen to stretch. “I always _liked_ the idea. People trust you. And things are simple to fix. At least,that's the idea, isn’t it?” Her fingers twiddle over themselves. “But I didn’t take it up with any seriousness until she…” Her eyes slide sideways; her lips purse. “Well. Until Blue took such a turn. Her health, I mean.” A pause. “It was never good, but it wasn’t always so poor.”

Lady Quartz lapses into quiet. When she glances back to Pearl, she blinks twice. ”You look surprised.”

Pearl _is_ surprised. She even forgets to apologize for any indiscretion. “You don’t call them by their names?” 

“Oh, best to stick to the one.” Her hand flaps, like there’s a gnat in the room. “When you’re named _Diamond_ , that’s all you’re meant to be called, ever and ever after… I’ve stepped on toes in court before.” She actually mimes a stranglehold and lets her tongue loll out. “It’s such a _thing._ ”

“But… they’re your own sisters.” 

She turns back to her letter, and laughs. Sharp this time. “No need to remind _me.”_

_Would you name me Rose?_

Behind her, Pearl can let the shiver roll down her back, over her skin. She takes a breath. 

Quiet unspools between them. But even after a time, the Lady is no farther down the page; she’s simply sat, quiet. “Do you know there’s only meant to be two Diamonds?”

“Only two?”

“Mm. The crown, and her immediate heir. The firstborn of any sex.” She places the quill in its inkwell. “That was Blue.” But she does not pull it out again. “Some of my earliest memories are of her fainting at the dinner table. Seizing up in the stairwell. And the dozens and dozens and dozens of different minds traveled in to treat her. And not _one_ of them could tell us why.” 

“Do you treat her, My Lady?”

In profile, her lips tighten like a cask. She shakes her head. “I trained to. And I studied, best I could, and read over all the healers’ notes… all the books I could find. And tested different things, and…” Her eyes aim soft through the window. “When I became a healer is when Yellow was named Diamond. And it’s when Blue said, ‘No more.’”

She reaches for the pen. Not to withdraw it, no; only to stroke along the feather. “But here she is! She’s outlived even the most charitable estimates of her remaining time. Perhaps it _is_ better for her.” Another little laugh. “Without the poking and prodding, she may well outlive us all.”

But if there are only meant to be two Diamonds… 

The quiet earns Pearl the Lady’s eyes again. “Yes. It went over poorly.” Her smile hangs, closed-lipped, draped over her teeth. “We snapped the ancient laws of succession over one knee, and it nearly started another damn war. Every one of our good neighbors wanted to pull us up at the root.”

“... they didn’t get very far.”

“No. They didn’t.” Something goes unsaid. Pearl watches it in the tilt of the Lady’s chin as she turns, slow. “Upon the threat of death, we stuck out fingers in our ears, sang _la-dee-da_ , and named a third Diamond.” 

“But the other kingdoms relented,” Pearl offers.

“Correct again.” Her tone is airy. “You’re quite the historian.” It’s not meant as a joke, but it stings like one. The Lady fails to notice Pearl’s lurch. She goes on. “We had our way. After a lot of posturing and… brow-beating. Eventually every noble from this sea to the next politely ignored our infraction -- of naming an heir to an heir.” Lady Quartz gazes at her page. “And now we sit and we politely wait for her to die.”

Dusk is near. A thrush trills, just outside the window, readying itself for a night of calling. The light thieving in through the glass casts a feverish glow over the pages on the walls, as though near to catching flame. 

When Lady Quartz turns again, the warmth catches in Pearl. “You have lovely features,” she muses. 

Pearl’s stomach jolts. “M… my Lady?”

“So expressive. And eye-catching.” She gestures delicately over her own. “Truly, it’s a treat just to watch you.” 

Pearl’s hand goes to her belt again. It’s quite secure, but it’s the only thing that feels so. 

“... and it’s how I can see _so many_ questions bobbing around. You have another one, don’t you?” She leans at the waist curiously, arms folded. “Pray ask it.”

“I… m-meaning no offense.”

“None taken, I assure you.” She’s near grinning now. “Please! Speak freely.”

“... I simply wondered… Now that there are _three_ Diamonds in the succession… if there were only two left…” Some words are unwise. Pearl glosses over the detail. “If that would that make _you_ a Diamond as well.” 

Something passes in her eyes. Gone too quickly to name. “Ambitious, I see.” Well -- no, that’s not _quite_ what Pearl -- “But I fear the answer is no, dear knight. I am sorry that despite your many fine qualities and talents that you will never serve as First Guard to the crown.”

“But you _could._ ” If the laws were changed… it seems foolish to ignore the very real possibility. “If law is changed once, it could --”

“That’s immaterial.” There’s a low warning to her voice Pearl’s yet to hear. It brooks no argument. “I will never rule. I can promise you that.”

And the topic is firmly closed. 

“... I should finish this letter.” She clears her throat, and resettles in her seat. “Take up that mirror, if you could? The light is dying.”

Pearl does, if warily. The mirror is heavier than it looks. The Lady must guide her in how to angle it properly, but Pearl manages -- at last offering better light to write by.

Lady Quartz’s hand resumes. The quill whirls at the end of a line, smoothly, before whipping back to the side opposite. Pauses; hovers. The earlier writing has all dried by now. The ink actually changes color as it does, Pearl sees, almost a --

“Can you read?” 

Pearl nearly drops the mirror. Lady Quartz watches her, gently stunned. As though surprised she never considered the possibility. Her heart wrenches. Bismuth’s advice clangs around her ears: _Be sneakier._ Damn it, damn. “I… of course not. My Lady.”

Her face doesn’t change. She simply leans back in her seat, and studies Pearl more closely. A dimple forms where she bites her lip in thought. “Would you like to?”

That… is _not_ what Pearl braced for. “My Lady?”

“You know. _Learn_ .” Her face clears into something like excitement. The Lady’s eyes drift from Pearl to the ceiling as the plan unfolds behind her eyes. Already nodding along. “Yes. Yes, I could find someone to teach you. _I_ know how, obviously, but teaching a thing is altogether different --”

“Read?” Pearl? Blood thumps in her neck.

“-- it might not take, of course, not everyone can --”

Pearl looks down to the page where ink has pooled from the quill. “My Lady --”

“But wouldn’t it be -- oh!” She titters. “You see. Proofreading for me already.” Some shuffling around the desk grants her a blank sheet to sop up the excess. She continues to nod as she does. “Yes... I quite like the idea, actually.” Cleaning done, she sits tall in her seat, and braces her elbow to the desktop. The shift sends a tassel of red-gold ringlets near the neckline of her gown. “Do you think so?”

Pearl’s mouth twitches… but she manages a stiff nod. The offer, so flippantly made, accomplishes what the hot bath could not: Pearl feels near faint.

“A lettered knight!” Lady Quartz laughs aloud. The notion takes on more shine for her with every passing moment. She smiles with her teeth so widely her nose wrinkles. “Just _marvelous._ ”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No there's hot water that could feasibly made in mock-medieval times or a piping system or plumbing of any kind but we all know what we're here for. it's therapeutic gay moments not historical accuracy. i signed up for this, u signed up for this. we all signed up for this. i'll see yalls asses in court
> 
> Next time: Lady Quartz's gown is ruined...oh nooooo... 👀


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG THANKS to [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) and [ and Florentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentine/pseuds/Florentine) for betaing!

Pearl comes awake. Her mouth is dry. Her lashes scrape against the pillow as she blinks, but something else must have woken her. She waits. All the sounds here are new. It may well have been something in her dream, or an idle twitch of the body. Better to wait. To confirm with another.

… but, no: her nerves win out. They pull Pearl from the sheets (terribly warm) and the downy mattress (terribly soft) to the longsword, sheathed still, leaned faithful at the bedside. Cool stone beneath her heels sharpens her. More awake, now. Pearl unlatches the chamber door, steps into the hall, and crosses to Lady Quartz’s. 

The hinges do not creak. She’s made certain of that. 

The lamp in the room is lit but turned down low, just a skim of light to aid the moon. It shows the Lady’s rumpled blankets -- and the Lady, in her nightgown, seated bedside with her back to Pearl. She faces the floor, legs shuffling blearily. Perhaps into slippers. 

“My Lady --”

She whips around and _shrieks,_ barely muffled by her hand. “Pearl! Good God,” she hisses, and clutches at her throat. Her mouth squashes flat to see the sword pulled and she flaps a hand. “Oh, _please_ \-- away with that.”

No one else in the room. Carefully, Pearl sheathes the sword again.

Lady Quartz stares. Yes; she'd been toeing into her shoes, still in her bedgown. But then she sputters, laughing quiet. “You frightened me.”

Pearl frightened _her?_ “I heard something.” Some jewelrybox sits crooked on the bedside, likely knocked around when she rose from bed.

“Oh, I was just -- having trouble sleeping. Thinking of some air. No worries.” She looks with heavy, baleful eyes at Pearl. Before the words are even out of her mouth, a little wince pulls at the corner of it.

Yes; Lady Quartz knows what answer to expect.

“... very well. I can escort you.”

Lady Quartz is not good at having a guard. Twice, now, Pearl has spent the careful hour before daybreak waiting at attention by the door of her room -- whichever one took her fancy the night before -- only to find the Lady did not even spend the evening there. Just yesterday she instead ambled past Pearl in the hall, chatting idly with a serving girl on her arm, and greeted Pearl with a flip “Oh, good morning!” before mosying onward. She tends to wander off without notice. And mingles freely. And outright _leaves,_ and seems beyond flummoxed when Pearl attempts due diligence to stay at her side. 

She never _lies_. That Pearl can tell. But she does her guard no favors.

Now, she… smiles tersely. Her teeth are grit behind her lips. “That won’t be necessary.”

Pearl lets her mouth flatten. 

She’s become more comfortable offering contradictions. Namely because they are tolerated and on occasion even listened to. Sometimes even a source of great _amusement._ Maybe it’s made Pearl more hard-nosed. But she’s yet to find the balance of wheedling, reasoning and soldier’s silence to yield best results.

The Lady’s look is hope dressed up as certainty. Her eyebrows pull in; her jaw sets; her lips pout. “ _Truly._ ” 

Already flat, Pearl’s mouth can only downturn.

“... it would be a _short_ walk.”

“It can be as long or short as you like. If I can accompany.”

She gives a long sigh. Her hand goesto the curve between her eyes, pinching. “... it’s simply not as restful.”

“Neither is restful as sleep.”

“Oh, you’re very quick, aren’t you.” The Lady huffs as she folds one knee to turn at the hip -- settling into a sloppy sidesaddle on the bed. “Tell me then. Dear knight. Can you tell me what dangers await me? In my own city? We’re in _peacetime_ , now. There’s no point in targeting me. There’s no _means_ of targeting me. There's nothing to be gained from it.”

There are _so many_ things to be gained from it. 

“... sound reasoning,” Pearl says anyway. "But I doubt you would have the time to explain it."

She scoffs. It’s a laugh, nearly. The Lady gives Pearl a long, leveling stare before she leans back with great theater: she thumps her head petulantly on the delicate headboard. A little roll of skin forms beneath her chin when she settles. Near-smiling, though. “You sound like...” She trails off; shakes her head.

A moment passes where she chews her lip. The skin pales, there, and then pinks again once released. Lady Quartz fixes Pearl with a studying look. “... do soldiers fall asleep easily?”

… Pearl shifts. "I suppose it depends."

"Upon?"

"The soldier."

She makes a soft sound in her closed mouth. Her eyes are tender. Pearl can feel them trace the lines of her face, and resists the urge to look away. “Do you sleep easily?”

Yes and no. Yes, when Pearl’s worn out from a good day’s work, when her muscles are too worn to give her prating brain an inch to run on. When nerves are calmer. Often no. Some soldiers would startle awake in their tents from a dead sleep, crying out over some horror seen or done. Of all Pearl’s trials, though, nightmares were never among them.

But she’s a soldier no longer. It rankles that the Lady forgets.

“Easily,” Pearl answers, stern, “and lightly.” Though she shifts her weight again.

Her lips twist. The petulant look returns. For a moment Pearl sees what she must have resembled as a girl. “Hm. How far are you with your letters?”

Pearl blinks. “I… ah, fine, my Lady.”

The tutor was baffled, too. A stony and lionish looking man who might have been handsome in his youth. He flustered past his beard when Lady Quartz introduced them, spluttering: Did Pearl help with her records? Her ledgers, her contracts? No? Then why?

The answer was simple: “Because it would please me.”

Whatever resentment that sparked in the tutor has been passed onto Pearl: lessons are a terse affair. Three and a half hours without pause from early morning to near noon, once the sun is high. He answers only to Master Wells. He speaks harshly. Questions are not tolerated. But she _does_ learn. 

And only an added bonus for the Lady that it distracted Pearl in the mornings. Every time Pearl’s left the tutor’s study, the object of her protection was long scarce, and without a trace. Which… yes: a _shameful_ way to serve as guard. But God help her, Pearl cannot turn down the letters.

“There’s paper on the table. And a quill… mm, use the ledger to brace it.” The Lady gestures. “Let me see what you remember. If you _insist_ on holding me captive here…”

Pearl’s already gathered them, eager. The tutor forbids books or papers from the lessons to practice in her own time. So Pearl painstakingly recalls the shapes, and reproduces them with a fingertip on her palm while awake in bed -- or on the length of her thigh, unseen, as she stands at motionless attention.

“Pull up that chair, too.” The Lady stifles a sigh watching Pearl settle in. “Let's see… just start from the start.”

Pearl leans to it. Like any drill, she’s practiced many, many times. Years of stolen glances at officers’ missives on courier duty only ever presented Pearl dizzying fever-tangles of lines. But she can see, now. Distinct from each: A, like an arrowhead. H like halter. T like trebuchet. 

“Look at you go.” The Lady’s tone goes soft. Strange. “Can you write your own name?”

“... nearly.” 

The nib scratches. In the corner of her eye, Pearl can see the fabric of the Lady’s nightgown shift gently as she breathes. Pearl grimaces. 

“What’s the matter? They’re all correct.”

“... they’re messy.” No generous loops or whorls like the Lady’s hand. Pearl’s tends towards shrewd, tight-fisted angles. Which would be fine, if they were consistent. The lines instead splay like kindling. 

“Well, have you tried with your left?”

She grunts. “It smudges.” The Lady might be a bit quieter about that. 

“Oh, interesting!” More alert again. She taps her chin, musing. “... well, give yourself longer than a week and a half.” She twiddles a fluttery little wave. “Your fingers have to learn, too.”

They would learn much faster with a little paper. 

“Could you… hmmm. Write _pen.”_ She watches as Pearl shifts the page, conserving space. Perhaps she can smuggle out the remainder when she leaves. “Nicely done.” The Lady’s inhale is sharp, through her nose. As though staving off a yawn. “Spell… hm… _bed_. I always thought it was funny that ‘bed’ kind of _looks_ like a bed…”

Pearl wavers. She’s not alone thinking like that, then. Her neck itches as she finishes. _Bed._

And a few more. And a few more. And… 

“Very good.” Her voice is fleecy with sleep. “Mm… surprise me. What’s a word you know I might not think of?”

“... I’m not sure, my Lady.”

Disappointment rings. But only a little. Her fingers drum a slow tattoo against her knee. “Hmmm. How about... oh, how about the sword you like so much?”

Very well. Pearl leans to it... but pauses. Her lips move silently. And again, shaping over the word as she writes. Then sighs, sudden, “Ah,” too late -- the word _looks_ wrong.

“You need a ‘w’.” But it’s gentle. “Are you reading yet?”

“Only with him.” She scratches it out and rewrites. _Sword._ And another. _Sword. Sword._ She'll drill a hundred times until she can spell it asleep. _“_ I can’t bring things out from lessons.”

Lady Quartz makes a squelching sound with her mouth. "The old _goat_.” When she sighs, a lock of hair puffs away from the corner of her lips. “Well… he never liked me, either. Would you like some books?”

“I-I would.” Heat sweeps along her collar. Pearl clears her throat. 

“You’re not _just_ a quick wit. A quick study, too.” She sounds impressed. But tired. Lady Quartz stifles a yawn behind the soft bend of her wrist, stretching -- her ankle pops, and her back, and she moans in appreciation. “Maybe I should have made you my recorder.” 

She fails to notice Pearl bristle. 

“Mm... thank you. I think I’ll try sleeping again. You’re a _most_ gracious jailor.” But it’s more starchy than playful. “Good night.”

“... good night, my Lady.” And she bows, and she goes. As the door comes again to its jamb, Pearl waits. Some shuffling. A clink. Cloth against cloth… a sigh. And the hiss of a lamp extinguished.

Good. It all _seems_ sincere.

Pearl returns to the room. Philippa’s correct: it is one of seeming dozens clustered throughout the premises. And there Pearl had been, worrying about bloodying the bedsheets. And the Lady lying through her teeth that there was nowhere else to keep her. 

Before she settles back in, Pearl leans the sword by the bedside. The sheets have already cooled. But will warm against her soon. Ungodly luxury. The sheets, the bed. The pillows. After years of hard sleeping her body mistrusts it all. But she has slept.

She waits to drift off midthought… though with still half an ear to the door. To see if the Lady makes a second attempt at escape. 

_Stupid._ Sour, gritty irritation sweeps from her mouth down her breastbone. All that trouble to take Pearl in, and heal her, and knight her, and name her first guard… and now the Lady seems at a loss for what to _do_ with her.

Captain Mallory had his faults. But he never needed chasing down.

The bedsheets pass from warm to stifling. Very well. Sleep will be harder to come by again. Pearl shifts upright and reaches for the longsword. A very fine blade. Even and keen. If she can’t sleep, she may as well take give it a good cleaning.

She sits upright, quiet. The lamplight can stay low. It takes no thought to ready blade. The cloth from the bedstand. The soft, stinging smell of the oil. _Sword. Sword._ Her lips move as her hand does. _Sword._ The _w_ itself like crossed blades. Like warring.

A hard pit of queasiness takes root in Pearl’s chest. Lady Quartz, meddling with nobles in other countries. Likely mocking them, earning their ire. Needling the head of the military, sister or not. Determined to conceal things. Lord. Just imagine if Pearl had designs on her life all those weeks, secreted away as she was. No one else knew Pearl was there. What if she laid in wait one morning, repaying fresh water and bread with a dagger in the heart? Not that Pearl _could_ , necessarily… not in that state. But the point remains: Lady Quartz appears determined, at each layer of her person, to craft trouble for herself.

Pearl would protect her. As best she could -- yes. She took an oath… however informal. And the Lady's abided by her term, however technically. But Pearl can not protect her from her own choices. 

If she died… Pearl swallows. If she were _killed_ … what would become of Pearl? She's been discharged. Dishonorably. Perhaps it would even void her pardon. Perhaps banishment, or --

_What would become of Philippa?_

The thought comes like a club. Pearl flinches -- nearly slices her thumb open. Yes. God. Scooped up by Lady Quartz, just like Pearl. Pardoned, herself, from further punishment. Would the sentence resume? The punishment? Her jaw creaks, teeth on teeth. A cramp in her cheek. 

Surely not. Surely. 

Pearl hasn’t spoken with the young woman in days, now. Only a quick glance and smile as she darted across the corridor, two other serving girls in tow. She should find her. Tomorrow. Just… just see her. 

Even compared to the first night, it’s the longest Pearl’s taken to drift to sleep.

After the morning lesson Lady Quartz has, of course, vanished.

Pearl traces high along her thigh: _Fool._

She’s hardly given a second glance as she passes stiffly from the study, past the already familiar to most palace staff. No longer a need to ferry around jewelry, at least. So she passes down the corridors towards the main thoroughfare that looks down below on the parade grounds.

The men-at-arms are well into the day’s regimen, now breaking for a meal. Golden diamonds pepper the parade grounds like hornets’ nests on shields, chestplates, pauldrons, helms. Some dim blue ones, too, upon closer inspection. No white.

Pearl’s fingers twitch. Her shoulder is better. All of her -- though restless. She needs someplace besides the room. But Lady Quartz has made no introductions or arrangements, that Pearl can tell. And she can think of no way to ask.

One of the men -- not the largest, but the rangiest -- pauses from adjusting his belt. His helmet tips upward until he must be gazing up at Pearl through the window. Too far to see his face. Pearl can’t resist: she gazes back.

One of his fellows waves to catch his eye with something chiding. But with no answer, he joins him in watching the window. 

… she should find Philippa. 

The kitchens are caught between cleaning from breakfast and preparing for lunch. Pearl is sorely underfoot. She dodges a scullery girl with a tray of plates from the galley, hair frizzed along her temples. Best to be quick about it.

“... good morning.” Pearl holds out a hand to a woman with tight, dark curls, trying to lace pastry atop a pie. The woman does a doubletake. The girl at her elbow says “ _Oh,_ ” very softly, lips parted. “I’m looking for Philippa.”

The two women exchange looks. Pearl... can’t tell what passes there. They both look back to her, eyes wide.

“... she’s, ah,” Pearl flounders. “She has braids --”

“She’s not here today.” Her stare is hard. Another glance at her fellow, though, and it softens. “... I’d check the Quartz stable. One of the mares is giving her fits.”

 _Fits?_ Pearl cuts a nod. She should get out of the way, and let them get back to work.

“Wait! Ah, you --”

The woman scrambles -- a cabinet creaks open, and a drawer with a rattle -- and she scoops items from a brackish-looking basket on the counter. Her mouth opens and then closes. "... you should bring these." Grappling with how to address Pearl, maybe. She holds up a satchel of homely little apples. 

Pearl stares. 

“... it’d save Pip a trip.” Her voice lilts oddly.

… alright. Why not? Pearl takes the satchel. The woman with curls smiles graciously and half-curtsies. Pearl hasn’t quite turned her back when that smile goes full grin towards the other woman. 

She dodges two young men hauling trays on her way from the kitchens. And is halfway through the hall when she recalls ‘thank you.’ She needs to tune that.

The palace has its routines. Not as structured as what’s expected of infantry -- not as Pearl’s seen, so far -- but some predictable rhythms she can brook with a well-placed step. She avoids the scrutiny of passing courtiers returning from a midday meal on her way to the main hall, and past the entrance, out into the open air.

The closest guard outside meets her eye. Seems he’s a mainstay in the early mornings. Older, skin already beginning to hang on his cheekbones, but sharp in the eye. His hair peeks from beneath his helm like foam off a beerstein. 

Pearl gives him a stiff nod.

"Oh, so you can look me in the face now?” He raises his chin. Yes, still sharp. Pearl pivots midstride, holding heavy on her back heel, hand to hilt. He is longer but not by much. Unlikely she could hem him in along the corner to choke his arm -- 

But then he laughs; it’s warm. “Good! Harder to take you for a scared rabbit.” He looks to his companion guard across the way, who says nothing. “Come _on_ \-- be sociable!”

Ah. Ribbing. Right. One of the rituals Pearl steered clear of in the field. The familiarity chafes. “I’m looking for the Quartz stable.”

“Easy to miss.” He leans, as though to line his wrist with her eyeline, spouting directions. Not far. “For the horses?” He jerks his chin to the satchel of apples. “Wouldn’t be awful if you lost a couple, hey?”

Soldiers like bribes, too, just as much as ribbing. And it would do her well to be friendly with regulars at the entrance. Pearl picks the two topmost apples to toss,, and he catches them apiece. He holds out one of the apples to his fellow across the way but his glare stays fixed firmly ahead. 

The old guard shrugs. Instead of handing back the spare, he pockets it. He goes to bite and rethinks his approach, wincing -- sore tooth. Or missing. But he finds the right angle and sighs around the mouthful. “That’s nice. Haven’t eaten. Harder to get up for breakfast nowadays. You ever hear you sleep less, older you get?"

Pearl… shrugs. 

“Well it's a lie. Don't believe a word.” 

“Move along, now.” A low, easy boom. The younger guard has a voice that carries.. Paler. His eyes are set deep beneath his brow, and they flick at Pearl for only a moment in contempt. 

“Oh you sour bastard,” the old guard chides, muffled cozy around another bite. "Ignore him. Got some rot in his boot." He swallows, squinting at Pearl. "When d'you get your plate?"

A good question. Both of their sets are quite fine. Clean, well fit, the Diamond lion bold on their chestplates. 

"... soon." 

He bobs his chin in a crooked nod. "They won't let you near the court floor looking like that. Knight or not." He twists the stem out with the side of his mouth, and spits it into the ditch. "Even the _Knight of Roses._ ” And he barks a laugh.

Pearl’s mouth flattens. She lets the syllables drag. “You take issue with the name?”

" _Name’s_ meant to come _later._ ” He shakes his head, full of good-natured disdain. His eyebrows tug up at the sword on Pearl’s right hip. “You're all kinds of out of order."

She should really switch back. She falters. “It… it was no call of _mine.”_

He laughs, wet with cough. "Don't imagine it was!" He finishes the apple, core and all. Sighs. The juice left on his fingertips he wipes idly on the cloth beneath his tasset. His eyebrow tilts just enough to the east corner of the castle where Pearl spent the evening. “Got your work cut out for you with that one.”

Lady Quartz. Of course. 

"... I don't mind work." Pearl watches him consider a start on the next apple. She weighs the words. "Has she had a guard before?"

“Lord, no. Yellow must’ve come closest.” He snorts. “Used to be she’d sleep under Lady Rose’s bed, if she could."

"Which one?" says the fellow.

"... oh, would you look who's feeling chatty now." The old guard jabs an uneasy look at Pearl. But she says nothing. "Good looking sword,” he says. Pearl pulls her hand from its hilt. "You'll want something short, too. Can't always draw in halls -- gets too cramped."

Yes. True. Pearl’s been craving one for the familiarity, and it’s doubly useful now. But neither guard has one, that Pearl can tell. "I suppose you don't have that issue out here."

“Ah, used to. Considered _gauche_ at the gate.” He makes a face. “But I had a lovely one in court. Under White. Real dreamy, opal inset.” 

Clear gray rings sit on his pauldrons now, denoting palace staff. “... what changed?”

“Well, _I_ did!” He laughs. Not as warm. Perhaps Pearl looks too mystified, because he squints, shrugs. "Was long time back… she’s battened the hatches over the years. Not much patience for old blood, now.” 

It makes sense. To want sharper reflexes in those guarding you. Though this one still has wits about him. Stinging gold, and dim blue diamonds. Ruddy rounds, ribbed like petals. Gray rings for palace staff. Pearl has seen no others. "I've not seen _any_ one under White.”

"And good thing. You won't see them unless they want a word."

Something bangs, far off in the market. The low shout of a merchant with a mishap. Pearl looks that way. Then looks back. Her weight shifts. “Suppose they’re easy to spot, then.”

Somehow that earns a wary look. “Suppose.” He shifts. He looks to the younger guard, who shows no reaction. “Yellow Diamond’s got a few showy ones herself.” A pause. “Ones Lady Rose turned down as guard. Might keep a lookout for them, too.”

Pearl nods. She looks again to the younger guard. He’s given up on act: he’s glaring at Pearl outright. 

“Don’t worry,” the old guard coughs, laughing, “ _He_ ain’t one of them.”

Right. She hitches the satchel in her hand again. "Goodday.” 

"And yours.” He nods her along. Not so different from gossiping soldiers.

Pearl doesn’t _dislike_ horses. She simply has a healthy respect and little occasion to work with them. Her first winter in the field, she was sent to water and brush down some officer’s mounts, and accompanied by another young recruit who fancied himself a jokester, which saw him well relieved of his nose and most of his upper lip. When Pearl wrestled his hand away to press a scarf to the wound, she could see every flat tooth in the top of his mouth, coated with blood. 

So: a healthy respect.

No one inside. Pearl glances to check the rafters, just in case. Only Pearl and rows of a dozen or so paddocks, a table, stools, storage for feed. Halters hung along the walls. Some need a cleaning. The tickling smell of straw leaves a bright cramp along her neck, not unpleasant. 

Not every paddock is occupied. The one nearest has a handsome bay, nosing past the gate. No curiosity, though -- just interest in the sack of apples. Pearl keeps middle of the walkway, just out of reach.

A battered, boxy roan stands pointed at Pearl like a loaded bolt, ears flat. He is utterly silent. Pearl needs no second warning. 

A scrawny buckskin, a dozing pinto, a dapple grey -- they regard Pearl with suspicion or indifference. Just as well. The Quartz stable is small, and Philippa clearly is not here. Pearl may as well leave the satchel on the table for her to find later. But her feet carry her the rest of the way

Pearl reaches the end of the stable. A mare, on her own in the largest paddock.

She presses the long scoop of her muzzle over the grate, mottled with bubbly scar tissue. Looks like burns. It takes several moments later for Pearl to realize the mare is heavily pregnant. 

Pearl frowns. She pulls an apple from the satchel and the mare’s ears pour forward. Pearl offers it. “ _You’ve_ earned one.” If not now, then later. The mare doesn’t mind in the slightest that it’s whole. Pearl waits for her to get a mooring bite on the last half before stepping back, wiping her hand against her breeches, and watches the mare withdraw back to the paddock. 

As for the rest of them… Philippa will be a better judge. It would be remiss to reward one that might have nipped, or spit out a bridle recently. She places the satchel on the table (leaned carefully, not to spill) -- and takes in the rest of the stable. Surely it’s not only Philippa responsible for it. Someone else must be stationed here. Someone who _should_ be tending the horses. Maybe a young man slouching around, out and about. Leaving it all to Philippa. Pearl ought to wait. See who it is, give them a good telling off. It’s dangerous, isn’t it? If Pearl meant to harm the horses, she would have no trouble at all, except perhaps with the roan. 

Is it really so lax? Here, inside the walls? Absolutely mystifying. Perhaps everything in Lady Quartz’s name falls victim to becoming fatally easygoing. 

Pearl scoffs to herself. One of the horses nickers in answer. She turns again, and a tabby cat freezes wide-eyed on the far windowsill. Her hand goes to her hilt before she can stop herself. But then Pearl puffs a little laugh through her nose. The tension pours off of her as she watches its tail flick. “Not from Records, I hope.” 

The tabby stares, sickly-yellow. It looks chastened. Then it drops easy as water out the side of the sill, and vanishes. 

Pearl hasn’t seen many animals in the palace, or the town. But there are always mice, aren’t there? Even outside of Records. Anywhere with people. Pearl wipes the sweat from her palm against her thigh. Then traces, there, intent: _Cat._

Pearl’s rather like a cat now. Turned loose within the city walls. What a mess. Lady Quartz cares little of defending her physical wellbeing, much less what Pearl gets up to during the day. Perhaps Pearl will roam the grounds from hereon, running errands for the serving girls. Gossiping at the gate. Skewering mice with her fine blade. 

She rubs a hand along her brow. Fingertips still sticky from the apple. She waits awhile longer, and feels stupid for it. 

The afternoon is saved: Bismuth is back. She’s warmed to Pearl ever since Lady Quartz promised extra help in the forge, and especially since she’s been well enough for fitting. When she ushers Pearl inside it’s with a grin and a wave, even as Pearl needles her with questions.

"Been bu-sy," she sing-songs, fitting Pearl with the modified chestplate. She can’t resist a little thrill at the feel of it. “You’re not the only one who needs me.”

Tsk. She lifts her elbow at Bismuth’s tap.

It’s similar to the first time: Bismuth in turn asks to lift here, hold there, make a fist… and removes pieces to be adjusted. Only minor changes needed. They’re halfway through fitting Pearl’s greaves when a man enters through the rear of the forge, laden down with wood. 

“Perfect.” Bismuth jerks her chin to the side. “Stack it up on the wall there.”

“Here?”

“Peeerfect. Nice work, Darric.”

The name burrows: Pearl’s heard it before. Where? She stares. The man is older, but not by much, balding. Enormous in the shoulders. He grunts when he bends at the waist, stiff-kneed, lifting. 

Memory clicks into place and Pearl blurts, "Rilkesgate."

He startles. “What?”

Ah. Well. Can’t very well take it back. Pearl keeps her chest high, even as her voice falters. "You're from Rilkesgate?"

His shoulders bunch to his ears. "Do you know me?" He saunters a step sideways, like he’s trying to get a better look of her. His glare is wary.

Dammit. Pearl’s mouth snaps shut. 

Bismuth wheels easy to look between the two of them. Whatever she sees on Pearl’s face is all she needs. "... lucky guess." She looks back to the man and jerks her chin towards Pearl, eyebrows high. “Don't play cards against this one, hey? Listen, I think that’s good for the day. Head on back, we’ll take on the pig iron tomorrow.”

… he does. But he gives Pearl one long, last stare over his shoulder. Bismuth waits for him to leave earshot. "What was that about?”

“He was on the Ibex," Pearl mumbles. 

“... the Ibex?”

“Weeks back.”

“Well… yeah. How do you think he wound up with me?” Bismuth’s tone is withering. “I _know_ that’s not an issue for _you._ ”

What? “What?”

Bismuth gives her a long, strange look. Not quite angry. “What exactly do you think happens to folks on the Ibex?”

“They get called to the High Court.” She stumbles, clarifying. “White Diamond’s court.” For taxes. Records. Whatever hair-splitting happens there.

If anything, Bismuth’s look goes stranger. “Yeah. They sure do." Her throat clears, brassy. "Uh, listen… better take it up with your Lady Fair. Seems you two got a lot to talk about.” Then, “Oh, _there’s_ a face. Job not quite what you hoped for?”

Pearl tries to clear her expression. She does. But unfamiliar heat tickles at the back of her mouth, like the taste of medicine. “... she… doesn’t know what to do with me.”

A long hum. But Bismuth’s moved back onto the armor. “That tracks. Sorry to say. Here -- try this one.”

She passes Pearl a simple helm with a sliding faceplate -- one that crushes up against her nose.

“... too cramped.”

“Yeah, lil snug, huh? How about...” 

They try a few more. Pearl likes the ones that afford clearer vision to aid her accuracy -- she’s accustomed to an open face -- but Bismuth presses for more structure. They compromise on a houndskull bascinet. Pearl can’t help but marvel at the feeling -- the weight of it. Different, yes. But something comforts her about being unseen. 

“I worked on it, you know,” Bismuth says.

“The helmet?”

“The Ibex.” An odd note of pride creeps into her voice, warming like the bedsheets. “Cast replacement iron and the bronze for half the bells and valves. But it’s the _brass_ that makes it sound so clear, you know.” Her grin rises a little. “The only thing that can follow you up any mountain or down any valley…” She sours. Even with the smith’s broad back turned, Pearl can hear the crimp in her brow. “... for all the good it actually does anyone.”

Pearl takes up on her words instead of her tone. “It can’t actually, though.”

“... do what now?”

“Once you get out afield, it’s harder to hear.” The sound blares so clearly in the city walls -- but it oddly makes it easier to ignore. Five or six more names have been called over the past week, but Pearl’s already forgotten them.

Bismuth glares at her through the gap in the bascinet. “Says who?”

“Says someone who’s been there. For years.” Pearl unlatches the faceplate. It swings open, revealing her upturned chin. “All along the border.”

Bismuth’s eyes bug. Her mouth opens; her mouth closes. “Well, it’s still pretty damn loud, ain’t it” But she’s quick to recover. “Where did you come up, anyway? Since it’s _not_ Rilkesgate.”

Pearl says nothing. She should have left the faceplate closed.

“Out in the sticks, I bet.” Bismuth watches. “You could probably get back out there if you wanted, you know? If she’s not peeking over your shoulder all the time, why not use your knightly privileges?”

Urgh.

“What’s the matter? Not your style?”

Pearl has no interest. She casts for a reason. “... probably illegal.” At the least in bad taste.

“ _‘Illegal’?_ ” Bismuth’s laughter _booms,_ twice -- a dog somewhere begins barking. “Says the only person I _ever_ heard of pulling off _years_ upon _years_ of fraud and forgery of our Most Esteemed Diamonds!” She hooks an ankle along the stool stashed under her worktable and kicks it in front of Pearl, slumping into it heavily. Dare glitters in her eyes. “Why, you’re the most successful criminal I know.”

Pearl meets them. They are dark, yes. But this close, almost near enough to catch the warmth from Bismuth’s skin like the belly of the forge, Pearl can see divine little threads of warmer brown, like oxblood. “Is that saying something?”

A knot of wood pops in the fire; her stool creaks. The dog’s fallen quiet. 

A slow, coarse grin spreads on Bismuth’s broad jaw. She chuckles. “Oh, I _like_ you.” It’s nearly a purr. Whatever she saw, she’s pleased with it. “But I’ll like you more if you manage to not scare off the help. At least before I get you fitted.” She pushes against her knees, standing upright. “Been trying on that sword?”

Pearl blinks. There’s a line of goosebumps down her back, but she shakes them with a grunt. “... I don’t think I’m welcome on the training grounds.”

Bismuth mutters something to herself, fussing with the greaves. “Riiight... forgot we got _another_ tourney.” She sucks her teeth, and shoots a glance across the forge. “Better lock down all the good stuff.”

“Are there many peace tourneys?”

“As many times as we’ve pissed everyone off. (the neighbors?)” A buckle snaps, and she tugs, testing. “Guess you haven’t gotten the chance to see any. You gonna be in it?”

Pearl nods. 

”... you don’t seem too worried.”

”I’m good at fighting.” The one thing she _can_ do well here. It’ll be a relief. 

Bismuth hums, thinking. ”Better try out the fit, then. C’mon -- take some swings outside.”

The goatpen nextdoor is no training ground. There’s no equipment, no supplies, but no matter: Pearl doesn’t need much. The armor is enough. Steel plate -- _real_ steel plate -- it makes her a little light-headed, in honesty. Not even from the weight. Even most officers are stuck with leather. It feels good, but she would like to test how it takes a hit… she looks sideways back to Bismuth. 

She has her crafting eyes on again. She doesn’t quite see Pearl, only the materials her body and movement presents. “Nothing pinching?”

“... actually a bit spacious.” She taps the chestplate with her palm. “Here.”

“Too roomy?” Pearl nods, and Bismuth squashes her mouth flat. “Not sure how much tinier I can make it... but I’ll do what I can.”

She watches Pearl through some slow, testing movements awhile longer before reaching to unsnap the plate. “I think we got most of it. Come back later, and we’ll finish the greaves.”

“Another day?” Pearl can’t hide a frown. It’ll take longer still, after that.

“Hey, come on, I’m doing two jobs at once for you. _On top_ of the others.” 

Right. Who knows what else is needed of the only Quartz smith. 

“Thank you,” Pearl remembers. Bismuth’s chin lifts. She looks pleasantly surprised. 

"Set up out here if they won't let you in the grounds," she says with a grin. "Make life a little easier for the both of us."

When Pearl steps out from the dark from behind the tanner's at Lady Quartz’s side, this time she _does_ shriek.

“Pearl!” She clutches at her heart with one hand. “Would you stop that!” 

Staking out the front gate has never struck luck; Pearl’s taken to haunting the hidden alcove study, instead. Maybe the scare will make her more amenable to guarding. “I was looking for you, my Lady.”

She smooths her dress and looks away. There's dirt streaked along the side. “Mm. How was your lesson?” She doesn’t wait and takes up her stride again, back towards the palace.

Pearl matches it. “Where did you go?” 

It's difficult to see in profile. But she weighs something, behind her eyes. “I was in the garden.” Then, almost snappish, “I’m _allowed_ to be in the garden.”

“Of course.” Pearl weighs, too. “I might have come and found you, if I’d known.”

“Mm.” Lady Quartz turns sharply out of the alley into a thoroughfare. She itches at the neck of her gown. “How’s your plate coming?”

No. No distractions. “That’s what a guard _does,_ My Lady.”

“Well, I --" She stops suddenly. Some patrons of the eatery stop and stare, and seem keen to call out in greeting… but think better of it. Lady Quartz huffs -- she _huffs!_ "I didn’t realize it would be all the time.” Her voice lowers to a scrape. “Can’t we have it just in court, or only at night, or…” 

The sensation from before. the bitter tickle in her throat rises again. A tickle in her cheek, too, like a grimace -- Pearl takes in air to --

> a woman barks, "Watch where you're going!" and someone grumbles -- a clattering, stumbling against the wood of the eatery. Pearl turns in time to hear " _Where’s Hollis?_ " 

Philippa. She's leaned over the sill into the building, calling inside. Pearl is already at her elbow. The girl’s face is a hive of panic, voice tight with desperation -- but it softens in confusion when she turns. “Pearl?”

Lady Quartz is not far. “What’s wrong?”

“My _Lady_ \--” she almost wilts with relief. “Please -- the foal is coming out breech.”

What? But whatever Pearl misses the Lady understands. “Quickly.”

Pearl follows them to the stable. Half the horses are spilled over the tops of the grates. All of them restless, straw by some kicked up in a froth. They want to be here as much as Pearl does. The mare in the back paddock is leaned into the aisle much like the last time, no worse for wear -- Pearl wouldn’t know anything was amiss except for Philippa’s urgency.

“Is it alright that she’s standing?” Lady Quartz reaches for her hand, and strips the ring from her finger before placing it haphazardly on the edge of the table. Pearl pockets it before it can fall.

“As long as she sticks with it.” Philippa slips into the paddock with no hesitation. 

Lady Quartz nearly does the same, but glances back at Pearl. Her lips pull, thinking. “Here -- take her halter.” She guides Pearl by the wrist. The mare’s skin is tacky. “If she tries to lie down, encourage her to stay. Use a soothing voice.”

“Soothing?” Pearl croaks. But she’s already joined Philippa in the paddock in low, furtive tones.

“The leg’s folded, too,” Philippa murmurs. 

“Can’t we just…” But the rest is lost to a huff and shuffle of hooves.

The mare seems the least concerned of any of them. Though tired. She shifts the weight on her back hooves. Pearl watches for any sign that the horse may well decide _Hm. Thank you kindly, but no more of this,_ and launch all her thousand pounds through a cudgeling leg to crack their skulls like clamshells. But the mare simply hangs her head over the grate with a dull, patient exhaustion. Her sides heave steadily for air as she meets Pearl’s eye. She simply endures.

“Oh, goddammit,” the Lady breathes.

“No, that’s normal.” Philippa shifts. “But do you think if we...”

“Too long. They need air _._ ” 

Low whispers, questions to one another. Pearl can’t see much of them from this angle unless they shift -- a glimpse of Philippa’s braids, the furrows along the Lady’s frown -- 

The mare shifts again and Philippa gasps. With surprising strength, the Lady urges the mare’s back leg at a different angle, forcing her weight back.

“Yes!” Philippa hisses.

“Now?”

“No -- wait -- just when she --” 

Pearl would think that ten years of gore and botched healing in the field would prepare her for a birth. But her face twists at the sound as the foal passes through.

Philippa hisses, “Carefully.”

“I got him. Oh -- he’s breathing.”

“To the side -- here --” She shifts the foal closer to the middle of the paddock, away from the mare’s hooves. Smart. “No, just -- just leave it. Give them a moment.”

She steps back, and Lady Quartz follows. They can’t decide whether to hold their breath or try to catch it as they watch. 

The mare is glossy with sweat. Still calm, that Pearl can see, though her ears swivel back to better hear the thing squirming around in the straw. But she makes no motion to inspect her foal. Both horses’ sides heave -- the foal’s fall in fragile, sparrowy little spasms. 

“Oh,” the Lady’s face falls. She reaches for Philippa’s arm, as though to clutch it. “We can’t…”

“Natural is best.”

“... shouldn’t she groom them?”

Philippa pulls her lip in at the corner. “... in a minute. Let her halter go, Pearl.” Pearl does. The metal rattles as the mare pulls back, brushing the grate. She heaves a deep sigh, and shifts her back hooves again… but makes no other move.

Pearl squeezes the metal of the grate. She looks to Philippa, and realizes the seriousness only when Philippa stares back, eyes heavy.

Lady Quartz looks only between the mother and the foal. She cannot help but take a step closer. “... she’s just… not interested.”

“... she’s exhausted. Let’s give her a moment.” Philippa can’t hide her worry. She reaches for Lady Quartz’s arm, too. “... it was a hard birth.”

They watch. The other horses shift against the straw. 

Long minutes pass. Noise from outside filters through, at only the very edges: distant haggling, children screaming in playful delight. The creaking and cracking of life at work. And here, a small piece of it, at its very start, struggling even to warm the straw.

The foal does move. It wrestles with its bundle of limbs -- nearly gets hooves underneath, even -- but slips in the straw and falls flat again, wheezing. 

The three of them watch. Waiting for another attempt. In the sawdust quiet of the stable, Lady Quartz sounds very small: “He’ll get cold.”

Pearl’s chest goes tight. Her jaw creaks, and her knuckles over the grate. She should join her in the paddock.

But before the thought can become much more, the mare takes a deep, shuddery breath next to Pearl: hooves shuffling, her neck cranes to look behind at the fumbling mess of limbs that must have been agony to separate from. Then she angles back at Pearl, as if to ask _Do I really have to do everything around here?_ before she pulls back, and she turns. The mare takes two tender, rheumatic steps closer to her foal, still struggling to upright itselfs -- gives the thing a nosing nudge -- and begins grooming its coat.

Philippa wheezes, “Oh, goodness,” and clutches at Lady Quartz, who gives something between a laugh and groan. She is _filthy._ Patches of mud and blood and mess clot along the fine pleats of her dress -- and a wicked-looking tear sneers up the side where she must have moved too abruptly. Straw sticks to the sweat along her cheek. She wipes her shaking hands against her dress, on her knees, and then carefully drops to them in the straw like a penitent. 

She doesn’t crowd -- but she marvels as the foal stilts unsteady as a drunkard, straining, before it collapses again. “Oh -- hello!” Coarse with tenderness. Her eyes run at the corners. “Hello, hello! Oh, welcome...”

Pearl’s chest tightens. Her fingers strain from squeezing the grate; she releases it. Hands to her sides. As she watches Philippa and the Lady talk in low, warm relief, her fingers brush high along her thigh, feeling for another word… but instead brush the outline of the ring in her pocket. Her mouth is dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swear I'm not planning some prince of tennis shit with Pearl's handedness, I just love ambidextrous Pearl and queer analogues
> 
> I love the dense sexy decadent-chocolate-cakey prosaic stuff, but i've come to terms with the fact that I gotta pare down on the style if I wanna finish this in, like, the next 79903 years... it just takes too long man...
> 
> Horses usually drop babies between may-october, so this one might be an early/late labor!!! It's fine for mares to give birth standing but apparently it can pinch a nerve in their backs that makes them take a lot longer to get moving again. Also, you can warp your youtube algorithm for WEEKS lookin up vids of this!!
> 
> I really really really hate coming up with NPC names... every name you see was at one point rootbeer surge or Beef Wellington or Crunch Hardpec 
> 
> If u see any blatant historical fuckeries lemme know! I might cry and do nothing but I'm interested in learning!!! 
> 
> buckle up I ain't know shit about swords _or_ armor (smashes my hamfists on the keyboard)


End file.
